


Nocturne

by nirejseki, robininthelabyrinth (nirejseki)



Series: 'taur AU [1]
Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: 'taur AU, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anxiety Disorder, Asexual Character, Cor Adopts Prompto, Eating Disorders, Everyone is BAMF, F/F, F/M, Fix-It, Gen, M/M, Mostly Gen, POV Alternating, Parent Cor Leonis, The power of friendship, almost all fluff, and also lawyers, starting from the beginning, young adult novel - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-27
Updated: 2018-10-19
Packaged: 2019-05-29 13:14:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 30
Words: 153,358
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15073931
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nirejseki/pseuds/nirejseki, https://archiveofourown.org/users/nirejseki/pseuds/robininthelabyrinth
Summary: In which Cor Leonis loses his temper, accidentally acquires a kid, and tries to single-handedly dismantle the Lucian immigration system – and that’sbeforehe and his lawyers find out about this Prophecy business.  If the Astrals think Cor’s going to let his kid’s best friend die without a fight, they’ve gotten the wrong cheetah ‘taur.(a young adult novel set in kickingshoes’ ‘taur AU)





	1. 1

**Author's Note:**

> Some background almost certainly necessary here for those who aren't yet familiar with @kickingshoes' wonderful 'taur AU:
> 
> In this AU, everyone in FFXV is a 'taur of some sort, 'taur being short for "centaur" but not limited to horses: there are cattaurs, dog-taurs, deer-taurs, the traditional horse-taurs, etc. Each 'taur has a human head, arms and torso extending up from the bend in the spine, and the lower half of some sort of animal, including all four legs and tail. [See the art for that here!](http://kickingshoes.tumblr.com/tagged/taur-au)
> 
> They've even gone ahead and create anatomical drawings for the 'taurs, including interesting features such as two hearts: one located in the "human" chest (the supernal heart) and one located in the "animal" body (the infernal heart). [See the art for that here!](http://kickingshoes.tumblr.com/post/169359002517/done-streaming-for-today-got-the-anatomy-page)
> 
> For context: a 'taur baby is called a "kitling" (general term) or after their type (kittens, puppies, etc.), then they grow up into being children, and then teenagers, and then adults.

A seat on the King’s Council is a rare privilege, typically given to individuals who have given many years of service to the royal family of Lucis. An offer to take a seat at the Council is more than a mere honor – it is a request to share one's wisdom and experience with the King and so, in turn, with Lucis itself. It is a position of both power and influence, and of great prestige, and it is widely coveted by those who would be in the center of the seat of power. Wise kings of the past have sought to protect the Council from those who would befriend young and impressionable Princes in search of a seat at the table, decreeing that only those with a minimum of a decade of extraordinary service to the Crown would be permitted to join the august body.

Unfortunately, they didn’t really account for the problem of _prodigies_. 

After all, if one counts his years first in the Crownsguard, then as part of the personal bodyguard of King Mors, then as the personal bodyguard of Prince, later King, Regis, and now most recently in his appointment as Marshal of the Crownsguard, there is no question that Cor Leonis, nicknamed "The Immortal", has served the throne loyally and with distinction for the required ten year period, despite the fact that he is currently still only twenty-three, and a young-looking twenty-three at that. 

Indeed, although there was some grumbling about his age, mostly from the older scions of the nobility, there was widespread approval among the populace when the news spread that their beloved Immortal would be joining the Council: his skill at fighting, now honed by caution and discretion after his experience in the Tempering Grounds; his extraordinary and intuitive grasp of tactics and strategy; and his surprising talents in the management and organization of armies were all considered extremely valuable additions to the Council’s wisdom. 

It’s just that Clarus sometimes wishes his young friend had learned a little bit more _diplomacy_ alongside his undeniable martial skills. 

“You’ve got me all wrong,” Cor says mildly, his hands laced together in front of him. His manner is easy, his shoulders relaxed, his face habitually stern but almost casually neutral; if Clarus had never seen Cor mid-battle, that same expression of mild concentration on his face as his sword destroyed the enemy, he might even be deluded into thinking that Cor is just making friendly conversation. Unfortunately, Clarus _does_ know better. “Entirely wrong, even. It’s not that I have a _problem_ with taxonomy – after all, as we all know, there are many benefits to classifying species, both sentient and non-sentient, natural and daemonic, by easily identified typological traits –”

The esteemed Councilor Cor is speaking with – Taceo Dovinius, who was appointed in the days of King Mors and who has _not_ ever seen Cor fight – looks pleased by what he mistakenly thinks is acquiescence, smiling condescendingly at his younger colleague across the table.

“– it’s just that I think it’s a crock of shit,” Cor concludes. 

The smile vanishes.

“Listen here, young kit,” Taceo snaps, “you might think that you’re some hotshot because you can swing a sword well, but swinging a sword doesn’t change the facts of the world: the people of Lucis are felidaetaurs, or cattaurs, the upright taurus cousins of the family Felidae, while our sworn enemies of Niflheim are canidaetaurs, or dogtaurs, who are more akin to the family Canidae, and as anyone can tell from looking at nature itself –”

“Yes, yes, we’re cats, they’re dogs, ‘fighting like cats and dog’ is axiomatic, I’m familiar,” Cor says, his calm voice cutting through Taceo’s rising voice as sharply as his sword would. “But that’s irrelevant, and not just because the scientific community has largely replaced the Felidae classification with Feliformia and Canidae with Caniformia. It’s irrelevant because it is _absolutely useless_ for making any determinations about sentient individuals such as ‘taurs. A person with the hindquarters of a cat can be a traitor and one with those of a dog a friend, if that’s what they decide to be; that’s what sentience _means_. And even if you were planning on going entirely by pure animal taxonomy, there’s no system of classification that even makes any rational sense – would you condemn every person with the legs of a fox as an enemy, and accept every hyena as a friend, just because that’s how science has arbitrarily broken them down? Why do we get the mongooses and the civets, and they the weasels and raccoons? And what does any of that say about our ungulaetaur friends from Tenebrae, with their goats and deer and elks? Where do they fall?”

“You’re splitting hairs,” Taceo snaps.

“Hardly,” Cor says. “Since your proposal is that we differentiate our treatment of individuals based on the species they resemble – indeed, not merely their treatment but their access to the very _rights_ to which they are entitled under the Charter of Lucis – and given both the known arbitrariness of nature itself and the historical unreliability of taxonomical science, my question is quite to the point: who, exactly, should be entitled to make so important a decision as to which person is classified as what?”

Taceo has gone pale with rage. “Our taxonomists –”

“Oh, _taxonomists_ ,” Cor says, and for the first time his voice is actively scornful. “Yes, they know so much, don’t they, with their always excellent classification that always right on the first try, and never any issues. Is that right? Or need I remind you of my own history with _taxonomists_?”

Clarus winces, as do many of the others at the table. 

It’s all rather notorious now, of course. Being born (or at least, found) within the Crown City, Cor, a foundling orphan left on the doorsteps of the city foster home, had been immediately taken to the nearest hospital to be given the standard taxonomic analysis. 

The taxonomic analysis program has its origins in the insurance system, given the fact that different ‘taur breeds often have vastly different medical requirements even within the same family or sub-family. After all, genetic drift and mutations exist: a pair of felidaetaurs would generally have a felidaetaur child, of course, but while it is still common for a two-tiger pair like Clarus and his wife to have another tiger as a child, or two lynxes a lynx, it is perfectly possible for a child of two species-alike parents to come out as a different felideataur species entirely, like a bobcat or a puma. Even if you exclusively married other ‘taurs of the same felidaetaur breed and had for generations, you could end up having a different-breed felidaetaur child, just because of the drift. After all, even the Lucis Caelum line, which is rather famously almost all lions and almost always married other lions, has supposedly sometimes produced a non-lion child that modern genetic tests confirmed to be their own natural child. 

The insurance system therefore developed taxonomic analysis as a method of testing for and classifying species at birth. The system became even more popular once the scientists definitively established that ‘taurs are not bound by any cross-species breeding restrictions the way that their animal cousins are, enabling any 'taur of any variety to have children with any other variety of 'taur, and, around the same time, any remaining legal prejudice against mixed-species relationships was definitively eliminated. Of course, in the face of all scientific knowledge, such prejudice hasn’t entirely disappeared as a cultural phenomenon – a lingering bigotry of a less enlightened age, when genetic drift wasn't as well understood and paternity tests were not trusted as much as they should have been, and there were accusations of infidelity every time a ‘taur came out a different type. 

Of course, the principles of genetic dominance means that a mixed-species child will look like a single animal species, no matter how mixed, and will generally take wholly after one parent or the other in terms of their appearance, but that just means there is even more of a chance of species variation – Clarus’ own mother was a bear, as it happened, but he himself took after his father the tiger, and he married another tiger in his wife Cyrella, and his son Gladio is also a tiger despite there being a decent chance of him being a bear like his grandmother. While mixed-species relationships are still a minority, they are a sizeable one, and have been for generations and generations, and that means that no matter what you are or who you marry, you could end up with a surprise.

Given that, and given the wide range of medical treatments – not to mention medical insurance requirements – that depended on knowing what your little kitling is from the moment of birth, the taxonomic analysis is therefore considered crucial. Even though the kitlings and, later, children who are so classified run the risk of being stereotyped simply because of their classification, parents regularly opt for analysis in order to better prepare for the future, especially as Insomnia grows increasingly more cosmopolitan. 

And so the taxonomic analysis system remains in place, with all of its benefits and drawbacks. 

In Cor’s case, of course, it was mostly drawbacks. 

At the time of his initial testing, Cor was stamped with the standard _Felis catus taurus_ (domestic housecat 'taur) designation that the majority of the population of Lucis has – out of sheer laziness, Clarus presumes, since well before the time Cor was officially re-tested at age fifteen, it was obvious to everyone with a pair of eyes that he was actually an _Acinonyx jubatus taurus_ , the far rarer (indeed, almost unheard of) cheetah ‘taur. 

It might not have been such a big deal if Cor wasn’t quite so famous: the great prodigy of the Crownsguard and, by the age of fifteen, already starting to be widely known as the Immortal for his daring, almost suicidal feats of bravery and his equally amazing ability to survive them. Indeed, if Cor had been any other child, growing up in relative poverty as he had, he likely wouldn’t have had any choice but to take what he was initially offered: his designation quietly changed on the books without anyone in the medical or insurance industries having to admit that they’d made a mistake and thereby open the door to incurring liability.

But Cor was _not_ any other child, and he was not exactly inclined to take insults lying down – especially not at fifteen, mere months before he’d gone to the Tempering Grounds, back when he’d been a regular firecracker, hotheaded and rash and so very, very angry at the world. After all, he’d received years and years of incorrect medical care as a result of his misclassification; worse, his foster parents had turned him out of their house when the expense of his medical requirements turned out to be considerably greater than what was allowed for under his category of insurance, and he’d lived for some months (no one is quite certain as to the exact timeline, and Cor won’t say a word about it) on the streets of Insomnia before he’d forced his way into the Crownsguard by lying about his age and only revealing the (incredibly obvious) truth when he’d already beaten the tests and defeated four current Crownsguard members in one-on-one duels. So instead of simply agreeing to a change of classification, he’d demanded an official recognition of his misclassification. 

A _court-sanctioned_ recognition. 

The medical and insurance industries had (unwisely) decided that instead of admitting the mistake and opening the door to future suits by misclassified individuals, they would simply _refuse_ to reclassify him, arguing instead that they’d been right the whole time and that he was actually simply a spotted tabby with a peculiar resemblance to a cheetah. 

It was a scandal, of course; the entire city was appalled at the obvious untruth being spouted by otherwise respectable doctors, especially with Cor visibly growing into the so-characteristic spots and infamous speed of his species. It didn't help that Cor, being a foundling, was surnamed Leonis, the traditional foundling surname in honor of the royal family of Lucis (all lions, of course). 

A cheetah named after a lion being misclassified as a housecat? The political cartoons all but drew themselves. 

Realizing belatedly that they had seriously thrown their own credibility into jeopardy, the medical and insurance agencies quickly retracted the argument, but the damage was done and Cor’s lawyers proceeded to definitively rip them apart in court. 

All together, that history makes for a pretty strong argument against Taceo’s profiling proposal on Cor’s part, especially given the fact that Cor virtually never makes reference to his past in any context, much less as a rhetorical argument. In fact, Clarus doesn’t think Cor has so much as mentioned the lawsuit since the day he won an unconditional victory in the courthouses. 

Taceo seems to realize that he’s losing his audience, as many of the other Councilors are nodding in agreement with Cor, so he quickly says, “You misunderstand the nature of my proposal, young Marshal –”

“Just Marshal is fine,” Cor says, his voice reverting back to pleasant. “You lost all rights to refer to my age when you called me a kitten. But please, do go on.”

“You act as though I were suggesting that we rely exclusively on speciesist assumptions and stereotypes,” Taceo says, pretending as though he hasn’t heard the interruption. “Nothing could be further from the truth! I merely suggest that given the limits of our resources and the well-known fact that our enemy is largely canine, that we focus our security forces on examining individuals with canine characteristics –”

Cor arches his eyebrows. “Still sounds a lot like discriminatory stereotyping to me, oddly enough,” he drawls. “You’re aware, of course, of the large numbers of refugees that have come to our city are canidaetaurs?”

“That’s precisely my point!” Taceo exclaims. “The influx of refugees is a perfect opportunity for a Niflheim spy to –”

“If I were an idiot,” Cor says flatly, “and I assure you I’m not, _even then_ I would still have the bright idea of seeking out my spies via the _usual_ method of recruiting dissatisfied individuals _already living here_ instead of trying to sneak them in as refugees – without money, without food, hurt and alone and having lost everything. Your suggestion is little more than anti-immigrant bigotry dressed up for public consumption.”

“Now listen here, you impertinent little youngster – ” Taceo starts.

“Cor,” Regis says from the head of the table. “That was uncalled for.”

Cor bows his head. “You are correct, of course,” he says. “I spoke too hastily. The fact that the idea is based on no science, no reasonable rationale, and would undoubtedly result in increased internal strife within the city boundaries is obviously no reason why we should not continue to entertain the idea suggested by Councilor Taedeo –”

“ _Taceo_!” Taceo roars, rearing back on his haunches. 

“Really?” Cor asks, blinking. “I hadn’t noticed.”

Clarus very nearly chokes trying to keep himself from laughing. The root of Taceo’s name comes from the old word for ‘silent’, while the similar-sounding ‘taedeo’ originates from the word for ‘disgusting’; a fact that Cor is well aware of, given that as a teenager, he briefly all but moved into the library to make up for his missed education, at least whenever he wasn’t on the training field.

“I think that’s enough for today,” Regis says quickly, though Clarus can tell from the way that his lips are pressed together that he’s also having trouble keeping from laughing. He rises, his lion's tail flicking majestically behind him, and everyone automatically rises as well. “Our time is up, and unfortunately I have another appointment following this one. Perhaps we can take up the subject again next week?”

Cor smiles with teeth, his hands behind his back in military style. “Certainly, your Majesty. Anytime.”

Taceo stalks off with stiff legs, his wildcat tail stiff with anger; the other Councilors disperse as well, most of them shaking their heads in amusement or disapproval, depending on where their politics fall. Cor heads off back to the Crownsguard grounds without another word, shrugging off the traditional Council cloak almost before he reaches the door. 

Regis nods at Clarus before heading back towards the throne room, an obvious hint, and Clarus falls into step beside his king. They’re of a size – Regis is, of course, a lion, and Clarus a tiger – and it makes it a little easier than it might have otherwise been. Of course, ‘taur physiology means that no matter what species make up their lower halves, people are generally proportionate to their upright humanoid halves, typically ranging between five to six feet tall, but Clarus distinctly remembers how annoying Cid found the casual walk-and-talk style generally prevalent in Insomnia, his jackrabbit stride being totally out of sync with their relaxed feline prowl. While that certainly wasn’t the reason he was no longer really talking with them, Clarus can’t help but think it might have contributed to his decision never to visit, at least a little. 

“What do you think?” Regis asks.

“Of Taceo’s proposal to focus our security on profiling canidaetaurs? Absurd, of course; the second Niflheim got wind of any such rule, no matter how secretly implemented, they would double their efforts to conquer territory which is primarily felidaetaur, and we obviously don’t want that. Not to mention the effect it would have on morale in the local non-felidaetaur population –”

“I meant Cor,” Regis says, amused. “I’m aware of the flaws in Taceo’s proposal.”

“What about Cor?”

“He was speaking,” Regis says. “Quite a bit, if you’ve noticed; I think the amount of words he uttered in session today is about equal to everything he said the first _month_ he was assigned to travel with us.”

Clarus doesn’t disagree. Cor tends towards silence, most of the time, whether due to shyness, as it was when he was just a kit of fifteen, following along and trying to protect a group of 'taurs at least ten years his senior, or to sternness, as after his experiences in the Tempering Grounds. The only exception is when he loses that fiery temper of his – rarer after his experience with the Tempering Grounds, but definitely not gone for good. 

Still, Clarus isn’t sure what Regis is getting at. 

“He has good reason to be especially bothered by proposals that hinge on classification,” Clarus points out.

“Bothered, yes,” Regis says. “But such a proposal has no room in my kingdom and he knows it. There was no reason for such an outsized reaction.”

“You have a theory,” Clarus interprets. He knows his friend well. 

“I have a theory,” Regis agrees.

“Would you be interested in _sharing_ that theory?”

Regis snorts. “He’s twenty-three, Clarus.”

“So?”

“Do you _remember_ being twenty-three?” Regis asks. “When all those adolescent hormones have finally started evening out –”

“He would’ve told us if he was going to go into a premature heat,” Clarus hisses, face flushing. “ _Honestly_ , Regis!”

“I’m not concerned about his _heat_ schedule,” Regis says dismissively. “Besides, you know for a fact he wouldn’t tell us a thing about it – you remember that time with the mesmenir den in Duscae?”

“Six, do I remember Duscae,” Clarus mutters, conceding the point: Cor had technically been on heat-leave at the time, bedding down in an abandoned mesmenir den while they continued onwards, but that hadn’t stopped him from going straight into battle against the Niflheim forces in the area when they’d ambushed the rest of the party, and never mind that it had made him the target of every single Niflheim soldier out there. Yes, his intervention was likely the only reason they’d survived that particular ambush, but _still_ …“Then what _are_ you suggesting, Regis? Stop pussyfooting around the issue already.”

Regis rolls his eyes at Clarus. “He’s the only one of us without a mate or a child, Clarus. I have Aulea and Noctis, you have your lovely Cyrella and little Gladiolus – Six, Cid has a _granddaughter_ already. And Cor certainly doesn’t mind playing with them when we’re having dinner, for all that he likes to loudly claim an inability to understand how children function.”

“Weskham doesn’t have kids, if I recall,” Clarus grumbles, though now that he thinks about it, Cor has been vaguely antsy recently, in what could be interpreted as a courting-season sort of way but is probably, in Clarus’ view, more of a Cor-sometimes-loses-his-temper sort of way. “I take your point. But I thought that Cor isn’t interested in courting?”

“He’s not yet, according to him,” Regis says dryly. “That doesn’t mean his biological clock hasn’t started in on him – and you know how his anxiety issues act up when he’s dealing with his body doing things he doesn’t agree with.”

Clarus makes a face. Cor is perhaps typical for a cheetah, brutally efficient and terrifyingly fast, but paying the price in heightened perceptiveness that often manifests as severe anxiety. When Cor is anxious, he doesn’t eat; when he doesn’t eat, he's grouchy; when he's grouchy, he snaps at people – much like he did in the Council chamber earlier today.

Damn, it probably _is_ an anxiety issue. And yet the stupid ‘taur refuses to see a regular shrink about a single one of his issues, despite being dragged to a first visit with at least half a dozen in the last few years. Not that Clarus could really blame him, what with his experience with doctors…

It doesn’t mean the rest of them don’t worry about him, as his friends and colleagues. Or, for Regis, as his king. 

“He’s too young for baby kitlings, anyway,” Clarus adds, still grumbling and unwilling to admit he missed this. “Not counting Cid, who had kitlings before we ever met him, the oldest one Cor knows is my Gladio, and he’s only two. And we’re both well over ten years older than him!”

“Only twelve years, Clarus; we’re not _ancient_. Regardless, he’s a cheetah; you know what they say –”

“Fast to grow, fast to bed; fast to run, fast to wed,” Clarus recites the old poem with an eyeroll. “Didn’t we just get out of a meeting discussing why we should _not_ apply traditional species-based stereotypes to people? You just _want_ it to be all about romance, you old tomcat.”

“Says the person who keeps trying to pair him up with company for the Chocobo Festival?”

Clarus coughs. “Enjoying some pleasant company and having a mate are two totally separate things,” he says archly. “A ‘taur’s needs are not all intellectual upper heart, you know; the secondary lower heart, the animal instinct, also needs to be satisfied…have you considered that he may just be _lonely_ , Regis, and not necessarily for want of a mate? There aren’t many other cheetahs in the city – and none quite like him.”

“Perhaps,” Regis concedes. “But at any rate, we need to do something about it. Get him to exercise all that restlessness out, something like that.”

“Exercise,” Clarus says dryly. “The head of the Crownsguard doesn’t get enough exercise.”

Regis makes a face. “Oh, you know what I _mean_.”

They enter the throne room. Instead of going to the throne, Regis heads towards the windows overlooking the Crownsguard training arena. Clarus joins him and looks down to where Cor is – well, to be frank, where Cor is kicking the ass of ten highly regarded Crownsguard. 

At once.

“He’s going to be unpopular if he keeps up with that,” Clarus observes. 

“I know,” Regis says with a sigh. “Perhaps some time outside the Wall will do him good.”

“You just named him the Marshal of the Crownsguard,” Clarus reminds Regis. “You can’t just reassign him.” 

“Not reassign him, no. Perhaps a covert mission of some variety...?”

Clarus snorts. “That’s a terrible reason to send someone on a covert mission,” he warns, but he can already feel himself giving in. He’s always been protective of Cor, ever since old King Mors had come back from his travels with an overgrown fluffball at his side as his _bodyguard_ , of all preposterous things; Clarus hadn’t believed it until Cor had demonstrated at some length why Clarus ought to let Cor guard _him_ instead of the other way around. Clarus still secretly thought it more than a little ridiculous; ridiculous prodigy or not, best fighter in the kingdom or not, thirteen years old is far too young to be on the front lines of a war. “Very well; we can pick a mission for him to go on, something reasonable…hmm. We did get that one letter from Niflheim, do you recall – the one about the factories?”

“Didn’t we think it was some sort of trap?”

“We thought it was likely a trap of some sort, yes,” Clarus agrees. “But this _is_ Cor we’re talking about. He can be trusted to scout out the situation fully before going in.”

“And very likely to survive coming out,” Regis says wryly. “If anyone ever finds out we sent him on _another_ death-defying, impossible-to-survive mission, he’ll never get that Immortal nickname off of him.”

“He’s never getting rid of that nickname _anyway_. If we send him solo with - at most - some back-up within radio distance, he’ll at least avoid being afraid that everyone around him will die,” Clarus says. “ _Again_.”

“It’s not his fault he’s so much faster than everyone around him,” Regis sighs. “It’s just the way he was born, and how talented he is; anyone else would have died along with their squad. He’s not somehow to blame because he survived where they didn’t, no matter what he might think. Do check with the Crownsguard that he’s been eating enough, will you?”

“You already know he won’t be,” Clarus says gently. “But I’ll tell him he can’t ship out unless he eats a full meal.”

“That’ll be something, at least,” Regis says. He shakes his head and pads up onto the throne, settling in for his next meeting. “Very well, we're agreed; let's send him out. Do remind him to be _cautious_ about it, will you?”

“Don’t worry,” Clarus says firmly. “He won’t do anything rash.”


	2. 2

“So, I’ve done something rash,” Cor says into his phone. It’s not _connected_ , of course – any hope of reception died ages ago – but he likes to record his reports as voicemails to himself in the event that the only part of him that makes it back to Lucis is his phone. Clarus makes a point of checking Cor's voicemail when he's away on mission, and sometimes after, and they've informally agreed that the garbled statements that sometimes make it through are not to be monitored for things like clarity, coherency, or cursing the way normal reports are. After all, one must sometimes make allowances for the weather. 

Cor’s currently wrapped up in a thick cloak that’s barely enough to keep out the chill. He’s never been more grateful for the fact that ‘taur physiology permits all creatures, regardless of type, to keep their most sensitive parts retracted _inside_ the body, though of course his poor bare paws are freezing every time they touch down on the frozen earth. Cheetahs are made for warm climates, not – _this_. 

_Niflheim_.

Yes, yes, he knows this particularly bitter artificial winter that sits upon Niflheim comes from that almost legendary battle when the great Glacian Hind came to life and massacred a large portion of Niflheim’s armies before being killed in turn. And yes, he’s well aware that that battle is one of the only reasons Lucis has managed to hold Niflheim off for so long, but that’s not the _point_. 

The point is that it’s _cold_.

The point is that Cor is seriously considering buying some of those stupid booties they sell sometimes to keep his paws from icing over, and he _hates_ those. 

The point is –

The point is that Cor usually has more self-control than this. This was supposed to be a _covert mission_ , after all – and it still is, mostly.

There's another explosion from behind him. Cor turns to look, just in time to see a giant swath of the factory ceiling caving in as one of the support pillars goes down. He winces at the sight.

He winces again as a small fire breaks out within the ruins of the factor, penned in only by the gently falling snow. 

... _mostly_ still covert. 

Well, okay, they haven't actually _definitively_ identified it as an act of Lucis and of Cor specifically yet, and that's about it, really. Every other pretense to subtlety has been blown up – quite literally.

And yet, when he saw – he couldn't leave it the way it was. He couldn't leave them.

The kittens.

Well, puppies, actually; he's fairly sure canideataurs call their young puppies instead of kittens, but it's irrelevant. They’re not even proper kitlings yet, just - babies! Babies in cages, babies in tubes, babies with mechanical attachments, with brands, with _barcodes_ –

Sometimes, Cor hates the rulers of Niflheim so hard it takes his breath away, and he's never hated them more than he does now. 

How _could_ they?

How could – _anyone_?

The letter that Clarus' spymasters had dismissed as an obvious trap, the one that purported to be from a scientist in a Niflheim factory, offering up the coordinates of what was supposedly one of Niflheim's infamously well-hidden Magitek factories, where the tech that made them so dangerous was developed, offering to smuggle them into the factory in return for assistance getting out of Niflheim – it sounded too good to be true, on paper, but it _was_ true. 

Justina had just about lost hope of a response when Cor came and made contact with her. She really was a scientist working at one of the hidden Niflheim factories, a big and plump ‘taur of the canine breed she fondly referred to as a 'San-Bernard' or something like that, and she'd worked for the Niflheim Empire for ages without complaint only to find the experiments performed on babies a step too far even for her. She'd developed a plan to smuggle the puppies out of the facility, but she needed help, and she was willing to trade access to the facility in return for that help – like Cor wouldn't have helped her regardless, just for the puppies’ sake. She hadn’t realized he would care about that; that’s why she hadn’t included any mention of the puppies in her letter. 

Niflheim is an awful place sometimes, and nowhere is it worse than in its factories. 

She'd take them to Cleigne, Justina told Cor after he’d seen them and stopped in his tracks, horrified; in Cleigne she’d made arrangements. There were families there, families living quietly under Niflheim rule, not bothering anyone, families that would be happy to take in some puppies without question. She’d prepared thoroughly in advance; she’d even had passports made up for all of them -

\- or so she'd thought.

She hadn't been able to count up how many kids there were – some died during the process, she explained, which in Cor’s opinion ought to be enough reason to stop any process at all right there, and she couldn't afford to have extra passports made for her without having the kids to show for it at the border, so she'd estimated the numbers.

She'd gotten it very nearly right: there was only one left over once the passports were all handed out, a blond baby puppy labeled ( _labeled!_ ) NH-00O6-O204-1987.

"I'd thought he'd die," Justina whispered to Cor when they found the child, thin and sickly and not even a full year old, but still alive. He was snuffling slightly in his sleep. She looked taken aback by the fact that he was still there. "I thought - he's a _runt_ , even for a saluki, and I thought – all the other salukis his age died already, you see, and were incinerated.” 

She gestured at the empty tubes next to the sleeping puppy, and Cor shuddered to think of them being filled with puppies just like this pup – to think of those puppies dying, alone and unloved in these cages, and their bodies callously thrown into the fire.

“What does that mean, then?” he asked. “For your plan?”

“I didn't get a passport for a saluki,” Justina said. “Which is a problem – some of the others, I could pass off as mutts, but salukis? They’re rather distinctive.”

"What does that mean?" Cor asked again. 

She frowned at him.

“What do you suggest we do?” Cor clarified. 

“We leave him, of course,” she said. “I don’t have a passport for him; I can’t get him across the border.”

“No,” Cor said. He didn’t even need to think about it. “I’ll take him. I have to smuggle through the Niflheim border anyway, and Lucis will let me through with him.”

Justina frowned at him. “Do you even know anything about puppies?”

“I’ll learn,” Cor said shortly. “Better than leaving him to die.”

“They won’t kill him immediately or anything, if that’s what you’re worried about,” Justina said, puzzled. “They’ll just keep going with the process – which, admittedly, will probably kill him, but honestly, he’s so sickly, he’ll probably just die anyway.”

“What do you mean, they’ll just _continue_?”

Justina shrugged, clearly not understanding the source of Cor's question. “As long as the factory’s still standing, they’re not going to stop production.”

Well.

From Cor’s perspective, there was really only one way to go from there, and he thinks (hopes) that Regis and Clarus will agree.

And if they don’t – well. That’s that, he supposes. He doesn’t think they’ll throw him out of the Crownsguard or anything, their old friendship is good for that much at least, but he might have to endure some sort of punishment. Maybe a suspension from his new role as Marshal.

Actually, a suspension might not be so bad; it’ll give him time to find a place for –

The puppy yawns.

Cor’s eyes drop down to the basket at his paws and he grimaces. 

Yeah, no, forget everything. He’s totally fucked this one right up.

He has _no idea_ how to deal with kittens. Much less baby kittens! Or, he supposes, baby puppies, but he assumes they’re much the same, and in _either case_ he’s vastly underqualified here. Thank the Six that ‘taurs are a species with a very short period of early development: ‘taurs are only truly helpless babies for a few months before they grow into (mostly) self-sufficient, if extremely inexperienced kitlings, capable of speech and thought, and from that state they grow into children, then teenagers, then adults…

What Cor wouldn’t give for the puppy to be an adult right now.

He _does not_ know how to deal with puppies!

Six, Cor can barely take care of _himself_ – in fact, he’s almost convinced himself that his king and his advisor sent him on this mission exclusively because Regis and Clarus somehow found out he’d started having trouble sleeping again. 

Also with eating, but Clarus wouldn’t let him leave until he’d eaten half a meal, so it’s not like he’s had _nothing_ to eat recently. And Clarus only let him stop after half because it was visibly hurting Cor to continue to eat despite his anxiety; he made Cor promise that he’d at least try to eat some broth while he was travelling because collapsing mid-battle isn’t good tactics (Cor is _aware of that_ , thanks, Clarus), and there’d been that lingering suggestion of a psychiatrist hovering in his eyes. 

Again. 

Cor does not want a psychiatrist. He hates talking about his feelings, he despises motivational speeches, and while he is perfectly happy for other people to benefit from correctly prescribed medication, he’s had a bad reaction to every single pill he’s ever taken.

(Domestic housecat _his spotted ass_. He’s still low-grade pissed about that. He doesn't think he'll ever be anything but low-grade pissed about that.)

In fact, just about the only good suggestion a shrink has ever had for him was to up his box time and to invest in some bubble wrap to knead with his paws as an anxiety-reducing measure, and that was someone he saw once when he was _sixteen_.

The last four shrinks Regis and Clarus strong-armed him into going to see (supposedly because there was a mental health requirement for being appointed to senior Crownsguard positions, which Cor _knows_ is a damn rotten lie but honestly it’s not a bad idea to put in place, so he went along with it) weren't anywhere near as useful. Cor isn’t into mediation or ‘centering’ or self-reflection, and he likes himself just fine, so listing out positive things about himself (good at fighting, good at running, good at surviving, good sense of humor, albeit one that very few other people understand…) isn’t exactly helpful either. 

He’s just _stressed_ , is all. And no, ordering him to not work is _even more_ stressful, as shrink number two and twelve both learned. 

The most recent one even suggested that Cor think about getting some sort of therapy animal to help with panic attacks. Cor heroically managed not to punch him, but it was a remarkably close call.

It doesn’t help that he’s not dating anyone – of course, Cor doesn’t particularly _want_ to be dating anyone, neither romantically nor sexually, to be honest. It’s not that he’s _opposed_ to the idea or anything, it’s just never seemed important enough to pursue with the same sort of single-minded passion that he does for fighting or command or training and mating doesn’t seem like it would be a project worth going into anything less than whole-heartedly – and really the only problem with the lack is that basically everyone around him assumes that having a mate would ease his anxiety while simultaneously assuming that his anxiety is the only thing between him and a nice mate. Possibly also kittens. 

Cor wouldn’t be adverse to a kitten or two down the line, but he's never really seen anyone who he thought of as mate material – he doesn’t even really have an image in mind, just a vague floating checkbox that society claims he’ll eventually need to mark off – and he’s just sort of figured that he couldn’t have the former without the latter and given up on both for the time being. After all, he’s young enough that he can afford to wait. 

This plan, while tactically sound, also meant that at no point had he ever put any effort into learning _how to deal with kitlings_.

And now he has to smuggle a puppy across enemy lines.

Said puppy yawns again, displaying his little milk teeth.

Oh _Six_ , the puppy is _waking up_.

Cor is _so unqualified for this_. 

He crouches down next to the basket. “I’m going to need you to be quiet,” he tells the puppy, who’s now blinking at him. “Okay? No noise.”

The puppy burbles a little and reaches out for Cor. 

“Um.”

When Cor doesn’t move, the puppy’s face starts scrunching up. Tears start forming in the corner of his eyes. 

Oh _crap_.

Cor reaches out and picks up the puppy. This is apparently the right move, because suddenly the puppy is cuddling into him and making contented sounds. 

His fur is very soft – silky and pale, just like his skin and his bright shock of hair. 

“Well, at least you’re not crying,” Cor tells the pup.

Then he tries to put him back in the basket.

An hour later, Cor concludes that he may as well discard the stupid basket, because the puppy has somehow got it into his head that Cor holding him is the only acceptable way to get around and anything else is to be met with tears and long, mournful howls that carry _far too well_ in Niflheim’s frozen environment. 

“You’re not defeating me,” Cor informs the puppy as he trots further into the forest. “I just want you to know that. I’m just compromising with you because I need to get out of this country swiftly and quietly and fighting with you is distracting me from doing that.”

The puppy yips happily and nuzzles Cor’s neck, quite content with his current position.

Yeah, Cor wouldn’t believe him either. 

Luckily the puppy’s pretty well swaddled against the cold – Justina’s work – and Cor is accustomed to carrying heavy swords for long distances, and the puppy barely weighs more than one of his swords. The puppy is also remarkably well-behaved, though Cor suspects that it has less to do with behavior and more to do with the ill treatment the puppy received up to now – he’s pathetically glad to be held by Cor, yes, but also his muscle tone is low and his lung capacity isn’t great. The puppy is small and sickly; a runt, as Justina said.

If Cor spends too long getting him back to Insomnia, he might not survive. That is – unacceptable. 

Cor has accustomed himself, after all these years, to losses endured in battle. He’s lost colleagues, friends – even soldiers under his own command. And yet, the thought of losing this puppy, who had done nothing but be born in the wrong place at the wrong time, induces a stronger emotional reaction than Cor expected. 

That’s probably why, when the puppy finally does start to get over-tired and starts hesitantly to whimper and whine, a tentative sound that nevertheless sounds hopeful, Cor immediately stops and begins to set up camp – hours later than Cor would’ve expected before encountering tears, but hours before Cor would normally have stopped. 

The tears dry up immediately as soon as Cor puts the puppy down and frees him from the swaddling – looks like the puppy was just tired of being confined and was testing to see if making sounds would obtain a reaction, which is a horrifying thought in relation to puppies or kittens. No one should neglect a crying puppy to the point that he’s unsure whether crying will do him any good, especially one that’s just barely on the cusp of kitling maturity: old enough to think for himself, to wander by himself, and Six, old enough to be _talking and understanding speech_ , and thus old enough to understand that he’s being neglected intentionally and be hurt by it. 

Monstrous.

At any rate, the puppy is no longer on the verge of tears – now he’s frolicking around, rolling in the snow and the leaves like he’s never seen either before.

Probably hasn’t.

Cor groans and makes a small fire the old-fashioned way, not wanting to draw the attention of anything magical. The forest is thick enough that he’s fairly sure the MTs won’t be able to identify him based just on the flame, assuming they’re even looking in this direction after all the misdirecting he’s being doing –

“No you don’t!” he shouts, leaping forward to catch the puppy before he runs straight into the fire.

The puppy beams up at him, babbling wordlessly. 

“Fire is dangerous,” Cor tells him. “I know you probably never encountered it before, but _don’t_ touch it.”

He puts the puppy back down.

The puppy goes for the fire again.

“No!”

This is going to be harder than Cor originally thought. 

He ends up planting a paw in the puppy’s soft belly (and kneading it a little, to the puppy’s delight) while rummaging in his pack for some food that he can boil down. Luckily he has some soup – surely that wouldn’t be too difficult for a puppy to eat?

He offers the puppy a spoon.

The puppy blinks at it.

“You eat it.”

The puppy pants happily, but show no sign of taking a bit. 

“You _eat_ – oh, by the Six.” Cor sighs. He waves the spoon in the air a little until the puppy is focusing on it. “You eat the soup. Like this.” 

He takes a bite himself, making a pointed purring sound of enjoyment as he does. Then he offers the puppy the next spoonful.

The puppy eats the spoonful.

Cor sighs in relief. Mission accomplished.

He offers the next spoonful, but the pup whines unhappily.

Cor seriously considers beating his head against the nearest tree. Didn’t he _just_ show the puppy that he could eat the food safely?

He takes another bite himself, and on the next try the puppy does accept another bite. Going back and forth, they manage to finish the whole bowl, at which point the puppy promptly flops over onto its stomach to fall asleep, making cute little snores almost at once.

Cor rolls his eyes and cleans up the campsite in case they need to leave in haste, then curls around the puppy to provide warmth. 

It’s not until he’s about to drop off into the light doze he uses on missions where he needs to be on watch at all times that he realizes that the half-bowl of soup is more than he’s eaten in a single sitting for nearly a month. 

“See, Clarus,” Cor grumbles as he yawns his way into sleep. “I can take care of myself _just fine_.”

The puppy somehow maneuvers himself out of the warmth of Cor’s belly and onto Cor’s face while he sleeps, as Cor discovers when he wakes up, but somehow this ends up being charming instead of annoying. 

He does wonder why the puppy doesn’t talk, thinking to himself about it as the puppy wiggles around on the ground while Cor goes to hide the evidence of the now-extinguished fire. After all, surely the puppy's something like a year old, now, judging by size comparisons with Regis’ kitten? Little Prince Noctis has certainly started talking, and quite a bit, too, albeit with some fairly terrible grammar. He’s a good comparison.

Unlike, say, Clarus’ Gladio, because even besides him being two years older than this puppy, Cor would be willing to bet against Bahamut that Clarus’ boy is going to out-grow everyone around him. After all, his mother in her youth was one of those tall Lucian warrior ‘taurs that settled in the Duscae outpost, a berserker who knocked Clarus clean out in a friendly bar-fight and whom he’s been madly in love with ever since – and Cor has long since learned not to use anyone who breaks the curve as a standard.

(He used to beat all his friends at footraces when he was a kitten, and they hated him for it, but he couldn’t run as slow as them, he just _couldn’t_ , and he never knew why – just that biting freezing isolation of knowing something was wrong and he wasn't like the others – didn’t have parents, didn’t act right, didn’t love right, didn’t move right, _not like_ the rest of them –)

The puppy sneezes and sits up.

A lone leaf drifts down and lands on his nose.

The puppy watches it fall with absolute fascination, and once it lands, he tries to bat at it, unbalancing himself, and falls over backwards with a surprised expression.

Cor doesn’t laugh, but it’s not for lack of wanting to.

The puppy starts to tear up again.

“ _No_.”

The puppy stops and look at Cor.

“No crying,” Cor says sternly. 

The puppy holds its arms out towards Cor, babbling happily, albeit incoherently.

“Why don’t you talk?” Cor grumbles. “You should be talking by now.”

It occurs to him only a moment later that the puppy probably didn’t have people around him to learn from – and no incentive for the scientists to bother teaching him. 

Even Justina dismissed him as just a runt doomed to die. 

Cor makes a face, mentally damning Niflheim yet again, and scoops up the puppy, starting to trot onwards again. 

“Let’s start you on some basics,” he tells the cooing baby puppy. “Don’t want you falling behind just because the Niflheim scientists stunted your development.” 

He frowns, trying to think of what would be a good place to start. What’s a basic, necessary, commonly-used element of speech?

“How about ‘no’,” he finally says. “That should be harmless enough.”

By the time they get to the border a few days later, the pup is familiar with ‘no’, ‘up’, ‘mine’ and ‘want’, and Cor has determined that he’s an absolute _moron_ because now the kid _won’t stop saying them_.

_Especially_ ‘no’.

The border itself is – trickier than expected. 

“Papers,” the bored female ‘taur at the window says.

Cor isn’t surprised by the request, even though he’s normally recognizable enough that he doesn’t have to bother with the details: after all, he’s covered in mud from having to do a bit of fancy footwork to get around the bigger MT patrols, he’s not wearing Crownsguard clothing, and he has a baby strapped to his back because that turned out to be the acceptable balance between “being held” and “in a convenient location so that Cor can still fight”. 

He passes over his papers. 

“Papers.”

“I just gave them to you,” Cor points out.

“For the baby.”

“He’s a refugee,” Cor says. “Also, a baby. He doesn’t have papers.”

“He can’t go through the border without papers.”

“We get dozens of refugees _every day_ ,” Cor stresses. “Not everyone can have papers.”

“They can get papers,” the clerk says, clearly uninterested. “You’ll need to go to the administration building down the block.”

Cor sighs, but goes. 

There’s a line. 

Sure, he could probably cut, using his status as head of the Crownsguard, but that feels a bit too much like being a privileged asshole, and at any rate he’s not looking forward to explaining this to Regis and Clarus _anyway_ , so he waits. 

The people at the front of the line are overworked and overtired and he gets three questions in before he realizes that they’re trying to make papers for _him_ , and then he has to explain that he already _has_ papers, it’s just the _puppy_ that doesn’t.

…he thinks they think he stole the kid from someone. That’s definitely the look on their faces right now. 

Then they send him to another line, because apparently _combined_ situations are taken care of at the other admin building.

Six lines and multiple hours later, Cor’s fur is standing on end and he’s considering stabbing someone before putting a sword to Clarus’ neck and demanding he fix whatever the fuck is wrong with administration here because this is just plain awful _even if_ they're trying to stall him because they think he’s some sort of child smuggler. 

“Listen,” he snarls at one particular female ‘taur, a bobcat, that he’s been talking to for nearly twenty minutes after yet another line. “It’s not that hard. Just make the kid a passport. I’ll get the rest verified when I get to the Crown City. I don’t need a pass. I don’t need a housing permit. _Just give me a piece of paper that gets me though the border_.”

The bobcat clerk scowls at him. She has circles under her eyes, and Cor would’ve been sympathetic two hours ago but he’s not anymore. “Fine.” She pulls out _yet another_ form. This is the fourteenth he’s seen. Most of them have turned out to be the wrong form only after he’s gone through the process of filling them out. “What do you call him?”

“Pu – oh,” Cor stops abruptly. That’s the first time he’s been asked that. As far as he knows, the kid doesn’t even _have_ a name, just a number.

And he’s pretty sure ‘puppy’ isn’t actually a real name.

Like, 90% sure. 

You never know what celebrities are naming their kids these days. 

“Prompto,” the clerk says, writing it down. “Got it. I assume he’s also a cheetah?”

“Why would you assume that?” Cor asks blankly. Prompto? Where’d she get that from?

“Prompto means quick,” she says. “Standard cheetah name, and I can see your spots. He’s a cheetah like you, right?”

Cor twists to look at the pup – Prompto, he guesses, because one name is as good as another – and he’s gotten so wrapped up in the swaddling that his legs are barely visible. 

“No,” he says. “He’s a saluki.”

“A what?”

“Canidaetaur.”

The clerk frowns at him.

“You assholes know mixed families exist, right?” Cor asks, crossing his arms. “He _could_ be mine.”

“You look _fifteen_ ,” she says. “And you’re covered in mud and – is that blood?”

“When I was fifteen, everyone said I looked twelve,” Cor says dryly. They were usually being generous, too. “And no, it’s MT engine oil.”

She looks _more_ suspicious now. Chalk another one up to Team 'they think he's a child smuggler.' “ _Is_ he yours?”

“No,” Cor says. “I rescued him.”

“Uh- _huh_.”

“Listen, if you’re going to have me arrested, can that happen sooner rather than later?” Cor asks. “And preferably _after_ I get the pup’s papers?”

He actually does end up having to talk to a local guard about it, because apparently Cor is a very suspicious person when he’s trying to follow the rules. The guard turns out to be one of the remnants of what was once Lucis’ army, one of the branches that never swapped over to being Crownsguard, but he still recognizes Cor and suddenly everyone is horribly embarrassed about everything, which does not even slightly make up for the fact that Cor _could’ve_ been a normal person going about his daily business with a rescued baby and then he’d still be in those awful lines waiting to get through, and possibly also in prison.

By the Six, Cor is going to _Do Something_ about this, and if Clarus and the Council won’t do it, he’ll just have to file another goddamn lawsuit. 

(Regis joked once that Cor must spend half of his Crownsguard salary on lawyers, but he’s not entirely wrong. Winning one massive precedent-setting lawsuit in such a well-known and public manner has gotten the idea into people’s heads that he’s potentially willing to fight others, and unfortunately they’re not entirely wrong about that, either. Cor’s sharp-toothed and very expensive lawyers are very fond of him.)

And then he takes Prompto (is that a typical cheetah name? Cor has no idea; he’s never really fit in with the other cheetahs in Insomnia – his mannerisms and cultural understanding are totally different, having been raised a housecat, and most of them are far too intimidated by his reputation as the Immortal to actually have a conversation with him about what he’s getting wrong) and marches his way back home, through the back end of the city, and straight to the Citadel.

Normally, he’d swing by the barracks to at least groom himself first, but he has a point to make.

“Cor Leonis, Marshal of the Crownsguard,” the doorkeeper announces, as unmoved as ever. The day he sounds surprised about someone coming through this door, Insomnia will be about to fall, Cor swears it.

Cor marches in, stiff-legged and pissed off, his tail stuck out low and puffed up in case they hadn’t gotten the message from the angry stalk.

“Welcome back, Marshal,” Regis says warmly from his throne. “You’re several days later than we expected you; we were beginning to become concerned about –” He stops mid-sentence.

“The border crossing is a shambles,” Cor says, totally ignoring the usual protocol of talking to the King while he’s sitting on his throne. “It is _imperative_ that we fix it.”

“Perhaps you should start with your mission report –” Clarus begins, only to get rather obviously elbowed in the side by Regis. He frowns at Regis, who is doing something bizarre with his eyebrows, and then looks back at Cor. A second later, his eyes go wide as well.

Meanwhile, Cor has managed to get a hold of himself. Clarus is correct. Protocol is protocol, and there are no exceptions. Cor shifts into parade rest – hands behind his back, legs straight – and starts, “I left Insomnia on the thirteenth of –”

“No, no, never mind the mission report,” Regis says. “Cor – is that a _baby_?”

Prompto has gotten loose of the majority of the swaddling and is attempting to chew on the edge of Cor’s jacket. This is a sufficiently common occurrence that Cor has stopped paying attention to anything more than whether Prompto is still slung on securely and if the jacket is still relatively clean but for the drool. He’s hypothesized that Prompto’s baby teeth require sharpening and that he’s using Cor’s jacket as a substitute teething tool. 

“Yes,” Cor says shortly, even though technically Prompto’s probably closer to being a kitling at this point. Prompto is not the issue here. “As I was saying. Upon leaving Insomnia, I went to the check-in point, where –”

“Cor. _Why do you have a baby?_ ”

“That part doesn’t come until later in the report, your Majesty.”

“ _Skip ahead_.”

“There weren’t any passports left to get him to Cleigne,” Cor says, being deliberately obtuse. “Which is why I just spent nearly a full day waiting in line at the border – _and_ nearly got arrested for it.”

“Cor, just – please – just tell me you didn’t steal somebody’s baby,” Clarus says. He’s put his face into his hands. 

“I didn’t steal somebody’s baby,” Cor says obediently.

“Thank you, Cor. Could you try that again, but this time at least make an effort to make me believe it?”

“He may have been somebody’s baby once,” Cor says, though privately he’s not so sure about that. Some of the puppies Justina had taken with her had looked awfully similar – cloning, perhaps? “But they gave up all moral rights to him when they locked him in a small cage and branded him with a number instead of a name.”

Regis and Clarus’ smiles disappear. 

“Start at the beginning,” Regis orders.

Cor starts at the beginning.


	3. 3

“Of _course_ I’m not keeping him, Clarus,” Cor says briskly. “That would be _ridiculous_ ; I'm totally unfit to raise a child. Prompto, _no_.”

“No!” Prompto says cheerily, but doesn’t stop snapping at his own tail. 

“I – good,” Clarus, who was prepared to argue the reasons why the unmarried twenty-three year old Marshal of the Crownsguard should probably not start the whole courting-and-mating-and-breeding process by skipping to the end of the line and starting out with a kitling, despite the fact that he seems to take that approach to _everything else in his life_. “You’ll be handing him over to the local foster system for placement, then?”

“Yes,” Cor says, reaching over and picking Prompto up and putting him on the opposite side of his desk. Catching Clarus’ bewildered expression, he explains, “He’s very curious about new things but has that typical terrible memory retention that kitlings tend to have, so I switch him from one side of the desk to the other every half-hour to keep him entertained.”

“I – see.”

“I have a meeting with the representative from the foster system later today - in an hour, actually,” Cor continues. “I’m sure it’ll go smoothly and we can ensure that Prompto is placed somewhere appropriate.”

“Good,” Clarus says. He can hear his own voice sounding hesitant despite the fact that this is precisely what he wanted Cor to do. He can’t help it; for some reason, he has a sinking feeling of foreboding in his gut. 

“Stop fluffing your fur in threat response, old man,” Cor says. “It’ll be _fine_.”

Clarus decides not to argue, lest Cor turn that temper of his at him – he’s not scared, of course, because Cor would sooner turn his sword on himself than on his friends, but Clarus remembers the sorts of pranks Cor used to pull on him, and the worst of it was that he never, ever admitted any guilt of any sort, not in words nor in a facial expression, not even years later, so Clarus never even got the satisfaction of blaming him for it.

Still, the concern, however baseless, remains. He goes to Regis.

“Have you spoken with him?” Regis asks, settled behind his desk and smiling down at where Gladio and Noctis are wrestling happily on the ground, mock-growling and pouncing at each other. 

“Yes,” Clarus says.

Regis turns to look at his oldest friend with a frown. “He didn’t agree?”

“Oh, no, he agreed to give up the kitling,” Clarus says. “I just have this terrible feeling that it’s all going to go terribly wrong somehow.”

“You always think that.”

“I’m usually right, though, aren’t I,” Clarus says dryly. “Have you anyone in mind for Noctis’ official companion yet, by and by?”

“Not for another few years, Clarus; they don’t even have real personalities yet,” Regis says, lying like a rug, the hypocrite. He who regularly speaks of Noctis’ brilliance and determination (as demonstrated by wiggling out of his crib), extraordinary dexterity (as demonstrated by chewing on his back paws) and highly advanced sense of humor (as demonstrated by simply existing) has no business postponing important like selecting an official companion because of lack of development. 

“Do you even have someone in _mind_?” Clarus asks accusingly. With his son as the Prince’s Shield, whoever gets selected as the official companion to the Prince will be his son’s companion, too; he’s rather invested in this process.

“Just a few thoughts,” Regis says, which means no. “Besides, I’m serious; I’m not going to do anything about it yet – Noctis still has to be old enough to approve or disapprove, after all, and he may find someone else along the way, and then, where would we be?” He pauses and frowns at Clarus. “Honestly, Clarus, look at you; your hackles are all up – why are you so worried? All Cor needs to do is drop the boy off. What could possibly go wrong?”

Clarus stares at Regis, who flushes in embarrassment. “Now that you’ve said that, your Majesty,” Clarus says dryly, “I can only imagine.”

Still, Regis is amenable to pouring out some nice scotch to help calm Clarus’ nerves and they spend a very nice few hours watching their kittens play and nap as they work on some proposed reforms for the treatment of border refugees to be presented at the next Council meeting. Between the two of them, they ought to be able to create something sufficiently egalitarian to satisfy Cor, but conservative enough to satisfy the more conservative members of the Council… 

There’s a knock on the door.

“Come in,” Regis calls.

Aulea comes in and Regis smiles automatically, his eyes going warm and soft in delight, even as Clarus looks on in amusement. The hearts in their eyes as the two of them look at each other is still adorable after all these years – and Clarus can remember them throwing their litterboxes at each other’s hair the first time they met, all those years ago when they were mere children…

“Is all well, my beautiful Queen?” Regis asks.

She smiles, because apparently she finds that charming. “Well enough, my hard-working husband,” she says. “I came to take the kittens early."

"Oh?" Regis asks, arching his eyebrows.

"Yes," she says. "I think you two should talk to Cor.”

“Cor?” Clarus asks. “I spoke to him not three hours ago; he was fine.”

“Yes,” Aulea says mildly. “He is still fine, I think, but I just saw him get on the elevator on the fourteenth floor of the Citadel.”

Regis and Clarus share looks of alarm, because the fourteenth floor of the Citadel is where the lawyers lurk. 

Specifically, _Cor’s_ lawyers, which they both know for a fact that Cor shouldn’t be scheduled to see for his regular check-in visits for at least another few weeks –

Unless, of course, he’s done something new that requires them.

“Oh _no_ ,” Regis says. “Not _them_.”

“Oh yes,” Aulea says. “ _Them_.”

“I don’t suppose you happened to see which one he was talking to...?” Clarus asks. If he recalls correctly, the brown bear is responsible for the matters that Cor has already settled or is in the process of disposing of; the ibex solicitor-barrister manages the overall portfolio but is largely responsible for filing court papers on existing matters; and the black panther is the litigator who helps start new ones. 

Clarus doesn’t like the panther. Teeth that sharp should not belong on any proper felidaetaur. 

Maybe it comes with passing the bar. 

“I’m sorry to say, Clarus,” Aulea says. “But I did notice some black fur on Cor’s heels…”

“We’ll go speak with him at once,” Regis says, getting up, and Clarus follows suit. “Perhaps there’s still a chance of – heading him off the pass, so to speak.”

Cor’s office isn’t that far.

Honestly, Clarus isn’t even surprised to see that Prompto is still present. He _is_ surprised by the fact that the puppy is now sprawled out on a bright blue sleeping pad that definitely wasn’t there earlier, and that he’s snuggling with what appears to be a chocobo plushie. 

He didn’t even know Cor was aware of the _existence_ of plushies, much less soft chocobo ones.

This development does not bode well for the “I'll just go drop the kitling off with the foster care system” plan that was _supposed_ to be in progress.

“Marshal,” Regis says. It’s as much a sigh as it is a statement. 

“Your Majesty,” Cor replies, standing up at attention. Almost all of his fur is standing on end in sheer, unadulterated rage, none of which appears in his voice or face or manner. 

Oh, this is going to be another bad one, Clarus just knows it. 

“Cor,” Regis amends, reducing the formality level of the meeting. “I was under the impression you were planning on dropping the kitling off today…?”

Cor’s eye twitched. “Yes, sire. That had been my original plan.”

“And your plan changed because…?”

“I was informed,” Cor says, with just the slightest quiver of rage slipping into his voice, “that it was unlikely that there would be any space in any foster home for a canidaetaur from Niflheim, given his, and I quote, ‘obvious unsuitability for socialization among proper Lucian citizens’.”

Clarus and Regis share a look. Yes, this is definitely going to be a bad one.

“However, I _was_ informed that I shouldn’t worry, since there was an appropriate ‘home’ –” The sarcasm drips out of his tone. “– in which they would keep any kitlings – puppies, mostly – and once they were old enough to be classified as children, they would put them to work in an age-appropriate fashion until they could be appropriately shipped off outside the borders of Insomnia and into Lucis generally, where a more appropriate location could be found for him.”

“That’s unacceptable,” Regis says firmly, clearly more than a little horrified by the thought. “We will start an investigation at once –”

“I was _also_ informed,” Cor says, interrupting Regis to both Regis and Clarus’ shock, as Cor virtually never does that, “that even if I _wanted_ to keep him, that certain _regulations_ forbade it.”

“Regulations?” Clarus says cautiously. 

“Oh yes,” Cor says. “Certain _older_ laws that hadn’t technically been touched on for some time, but which seem to be making a resurgence as justification for certain enforcement approaches –”

The two older ‘taurs wince. They know what laws Cor is talking about – Regis might be king, yes, and a divinely chosen one at that, but like all kings he is highly dependent on the goodwill of the stronger members of his nobility and merchant classes. Some of which, like Councilor Taceo, had very conservative views, particularly regarding the naturalization of individuals from Niflheim. 

Or, perhaps more accurately, the _inability_ to naturalize individuals from Niflheim as citizens of Lucis via the process of adoption.

The laws had originally been invented to stop a pernicious form of recreational child buying, an awful practice in place generations back when Niflheim was still a poor desert-scarred region and long before became the great empire that it is now, but they had been revived in Regis’ father’s time to ill effect now that there were more and more refugees fleeing the might of Niflheim in favor of the safety of Insomnia. 

Regis had been forced to compromise, early in his reign, and to keep those laws on the books with the hope that they wouldn’t be overly enforced. With there being so many refugees from all over, it wasn’t even that absurd a hope – all a refugee had to do was say that they were from somewhere else, no matter how flimsy the story, and they’d be allowed through the system. 

Cor, as both Regis and Clarus know very well to their regret, is not overly fond of lying to make things easier. 

“You’re suing the government again, aren’t you,” Clarus says heavily, not bothering to make it a question.

“Yes,” Cor answers anyway.

“You need to stop doing that, Cor. You’re _part_ of the government now.”

“I promise to recuse myself from any vote related specifically to my lawsuit,” Cor says. “Minister.”

Clarus sighs. “That isn’t really the point I was trying to –”

“The _point_ , Clarus,” Cor says, starting to bristle up again, “is that – Prompto, stop that.”

The puppy has gotten out of his bed and grabbed onto Cor’s tail, distracting him. It only takes a minute or so for Cor to put the puppy back in his bed and turn back, but Cor’s regained control of his temper by the time he does.

Interesting.

“I agree with you entirely,” Regis says briskly, deciding to take advantage of the momentary pause. “Those laws are an abomination and must be repealed, and if a lawsuit is the best way to do so, then so be it. But Cor – I’m not sure you’ve thought this all the way through.”

“Your Majesty?”

“Until such date as the law _is_ repealed, you, as a citizen of Lucis, have no right to file a petition specifically requesting to adopt Prompto even if you wanted him,” Regis points out. “And so despite everything he must still be taken to the adoption center for them to place into one of the approved-of foster homes or group homes – though of course we will immediately audit any group homes and put a stop to any illegitimate ‘work’ they’re forcing the children to do.”

But Cor is already shaking his head. Both of Clarus’ hearts, which had started hoping after Regis’ excellently made points, begin to sink once more.

“Don’t worry, we’ve dealt with that,” Cor says, making a face not unlike having bitten into a lemon and finding it rotten as well as sour. “I don’t like it – I don’t like it _at all_ \- but it’ll do as a temporary mechanism, and at any rate having Prompto remain with me will be better to demonstrate how ripe a time it is for my lawsuit on the adoption laws. I’ve already had the papers for Prompto made up and everything.”

“You do?” Clarus asks, surprised. This is far worse than he could have imagined. “But – even putting the laws aside – the adoption process takes weeks, if not months or even years to complete!”

“Oh, I didn’t _adopt_ him, being as that's illegal,” Cor says. “He’s here as a medical necessity.”

There’s a long pause, in which both Regis and Clarus look at each other desperately as though they could encourage the other to be the one to ask the question to which neither of them wants the answer.

In the end, Clarus breaks first, but in his defense, Regis _is_ his liege and master whom he is sworn to defend. “Cor,” he says, very slowly and reluctantly. “What do you mean by that?”

“Don’t get me _wrong_ ,” Cor says. “I think it’s despicable that they’ll let me keep him without giving me the right to adopt him should I so wish; the potential for abuse is far too high, even though of course I personally have no intentions on abusing him.”

“Cor.”

“Still, it’s a loophole we’ll have to look into closing. I’ve already started drafting some proposed legislation to that effect –”

“ _Cor_.”

“Yes, Clarus?”

“What do you mean, the puppy is here as a medical necessity? He's a kitling. How exactly can he be a _medical necessity_?”

“Well,” Cor says. “Do you remember how my last psychiatrist recommended that I consider acquiring a therapy companion?”

“Yes, and you ignored her the way you always –”

Clarus shuts his mouth when the realization hits.

“Oh no,” Regis says. “Oh _no_. Cor, tell me they didn’t.”

Cor smiles grimly. “My solicitor texted me confirmation just before you two walked in,” he says. “Prompto Argentum – don’t ask, it was Counsel Scientia’s idea of a joke, she has a strange fondness for puns – has officially received his papers as my brand new therapy companion.”

“He’s a _year old_.”

“Oh yes,” Cor says, and his brow only grows more furrowed in his rage. “Did I not mention? They licensed him as a _therapy animal_.”

Clarus gives up. There is officially zero chance that they’ll be able to stop this lawsuit, _or_ stop Cor from keeping the pup – and honestly, he can’t say he disagrees with the former, even though he still thinks Cor will regret the latter when he realizes how difficult childrearing can be, much less childrearing a puppy all alone.

Regis has clearly reached a similar conclusion, because he sighs, a long mournful exhale, and says, “Do you think Prompto would like to come play with Noctis and Gladio? Aulea has them.”

“I think that would be an excellent idea, your Majesty,” Cor says. “The book on parenting I obtained indicated that peer socialization would be – good. For him.”

He’s already gone to get books on the subject.

Yes, indeed, Clarus reflects. They’re all doomed.

* * *

It's not until Cor finally gets home to his own personal apartments that the red haze that's been tinting his vision finally fades away and he can think again. 

He can finally admit that his actions were – and he always thinks this last part in Gilgamesh's voice, a lurking memory of the spirit standing above him as Cor bleeds and pants from sheer exhaustion with all his youthful rage spent – _unwise_. 

Cor covers his face with one hand. He was supposed to have _learned_ from that incident – become less overconfident, less reckless, less temperamental. He liked to think that he had succeeded in some measure in his goal of reshaping himself into a warrior worthy of Regis' trust, a ‘taur who could accurately judge a given situation regardless of his feelings, who could decide on strategy and tactics and stick to them...

Someone who wouldn't, say, accidentally acquire guardianship over a baby in a fit of rage. 

Cor clearly hasn't quite achieved his goals quite yet, though he gives himself enough credit to recognize that he did, in fact, formulate an effective strategic and tactical plan and execute it in the face of all attempts to stop him. It's just that the people trying to stop him were his friends – and his king...no, Cor will clearly have to double up on his training, spend more time being mindful, more time on that blasted meditation people keep recommending for him, more time focusing on how to maintain his composure in the face of intolerable goads –

"No?" Prompto asks hesitantly, his tiny hands clutching at Cor's arms even as his four little legs kick out a little, his tail giving a hopeful wag. 

Cor has a _puppy_. 

Oh, Six. 

May the birds of the Fulgarian come forth and strike him down with a lightning bolt. 

Any time now.

_Please_. 

When no bolt of lightning appears to be forthcoming – damnit, Ramuh, never there when one needs him – Cor resigns himself to the inevitable of having to actually figure out how to care for a child.

(At least he has some books on the subject. He doesn't remember when he acquired the books on the subject, but he definitely has some. Did he visit a library while in a murderous fugue state or something?)

"Yes," Cor tells the pup, stepping fully into his apartment. "This is my home. It is your home now."

Prompto blinks at him. He clearly doesn't understand – the physician specialist (pediatrician, Cor's mind corrects) agreed with Cor's assessment that Prompto's linguistic facility lags behind the normal curve of development, but assured him that with adequate socialization and care he should catch up soon enough, and indeed Prompto’s been picking up words like a sponge.

He encouraged Cor to speak to the pup often, and – at Cor's doubtful expression – to play him children's films whenever possible. 

"We will sleep here," Cor explains, putting Prompto down. 

"Sleep!" Prompto exclaims, pleased by another word he recognizes. He pointedly opens his mouth in a fake yawn, which is very quickly overtaken by a real yawn. 

"Yes, sleep," Cor says. He frowns – the last day or two, Prompto has been sleeping on the soft pad he purchased for his office, given that Cor himself has also been sleeping in his office, but obviously Cor hadn't installed one here, even if a pad were appropriate for long-term nesting, which it's not. Or maybe it is, for canideataurs, but Cor certainly isn't going to let someone he plans to care for not have a proper bed. He'll have to call some people tomorrow...tonight, however, his own bed will have to do. "Come, I'll show you the bed."

Prompto is initially confused by it – like most large-cat felidaetaurs, Cor prefers his bed to be set into a depressed space in the floor, filled with blankets and pillows and softness, all marked with Cor's scent and encircled with a series of likely-unnecessary alarms designed to alert him to any danger from the outside; Cor added the last himself, to relieve his anxiety, but has only ever managed to relieve his immediate fears rather than anything long-term – but quickly adapts and throws himself in, yipping with a last burst of energy and rolling around, getting his scent all over Cor's precious nest. Then he turns around three times – a habit of canideataurs, Cor is given to understand – and settles down, blinking up at Cor. 

"Sleep," Cor tells him.

"Sleep," Prompto agrees, and looks expectantly at Cor.

It occurs to Cor that perhaps he's accustomed Prompto to the notion that Cor will sleep by his side, these last few days of travel and bureaucratic infighting. He'll have to fix that. 

Of course, since Prompto doesn't have his own bed, fixing that would mean that Cor exiles _himself_ from his nest for the evening, and that's just unacceptable. It's been a long, hard trip, and he deserves some proper rest.

Well, Prompto's young. Another night or two won't hurt. 

Cor climbs in and settles himself around Prompto, pulling a light blanket over the two of them and pushing a pillow under Prompto's head, then one for himself. 

Prompto yawns and promptly falls asleep, soft little snores confirming that he's lost his battle with his swiftly closing eyes. 

Cor is pleased and settles himself down, feeling himself start to purr with satisfaction. Really, this whole child-rearing business isn't as complicated as Regis and Clarus are always making it out to be. Prompto is asleep now, and soon Cor will be as well, and tomorrow they will rise and –

Cor's eyes snap open.

What do puppies _eat_?! 

He doesn't know. Is it something special? Does he have it? Cor's no chef, and he deliberately picked an apartment not far from the Crownsguard mess hall for convenience, but the food at the Crownsguard mess is notoriously awful - according to other people, Cor's never seen a problem with it, but he's been assured that that's just because he grew up eating it – and for another thing it's largely designed to a felidaetaur diet, not a canidaetaur diet, and puppies are likely even more sensitive than adults, and –

Oh, Six. 

What has Cor been feeding Prompto the last few days? He doesn't even remember. _Has_ he been feeding him?!

Cor resigns himself to spending the rest of the night worrying the problem over in his mind.

Prompto yawns and wiggles closer to Cor. “No,” he whispers sleepily. Cor frowns down at him, wondering if Prompto is really awake again or if he’s speaking in his sleep again. Prompto reaches out a hand and catches Cor’s finger, pulling it in close to him. “No. Sleep.”

Cor rolls his eyes, but Prompto keeps wiggling unhappily. Clearly, Prompto has developed some issue with joint sleeping in the last week; another problem Cor will have to deal with once he obtains a proper bed for Prompto.

In the meantime, he lies down, planning on pretending to sleep for long enough to have Prompto actually fall _asleep_ this time so that he can continue worrying in peace.

Before ten minutes have passed, they’re both fast asleep.


	4. 4

Clarus knocks. 

There's a muffled sound, not unlike a groan. 

"Cor?" Clarus calls. "You missed the Council meeting today. Are you in there?"

"...yes."

"Can I come in?"

Silence. 

Clarus frowns a little. It isn't _unheard_ of for Cor to retreat so fully into his anxiety that he doesn't want to see anyone, not even old friends, but it's been a while since the last time, and there didn't seem to be any inciting incident this time...

"Fine," Cor says grudgingly. "But don't expect much hosting."

Clarus lets himself in. Cor is sprawled out in the corner, having box time – like many species of felidaetaur, he has a fondness for sitting in large cardboard boxes, and it is sufficiently useful for his anxiety that he obtained one for the main room of his residence even though it is maybe considered a little bit juvenile to have a furnishing like that out in the open, though obviously everyone _has_ one – and looking exhausted.

"Are you all right?" Clarus asks, frowning. He hopes Cor isn't sick. Cor is awful when he's sick – he keeps trying to work right up until he actually collapses and needs to be put on bedrest, but bedrest only makes him anxious and grumpy and liable to glare at everyone. "You aren't sick, are you?"

"No," Cor says. 

"Then what? I swear, between you and Regis, getting a straight answer is –"

"Keep your voice down!" Cor hisses, his fur rising on end. "I've just put Prompto down for his nap, and by Bahamut's scaly hide, if you wake him up...!"

There's a crash in the other room, not unlike the sound of a small body rolling out of bed and into something. 

Clarus winces. 

Cor glares death at him.

"I'll watch him until he tires himself out?" Clarus offers. "Since I woke up him."

When Gladio is awakened from a nap, he usually needs to expend a bit of energy and then he conks right back out again. Clarus has three years of experience. This'll be no problem. 

"You do that," Cor grumbles, settling back down in his box. "Have fun."

"I'm sure I will," Clarus says, heading over towards – no, Prompto's already out of the bedroom and he's zipping around the room, yipping sleepily but happily, tail wagging. 

_What an adorable puppy_ , Clarus thinks, smiling. 

Prompto then runs straight for –

"No!" Clarus yelps, pouncing instinctively and catching Prompto before he runs headlong into a coffee table with sharp edges. "Be _careful_ , child."

Prompto beams at him. "No!" he chirps, wiggling pointedly in a downwards motion, clearly wanting to get back down.

Clarus puts him down. "Not 'no'," he says, sternly but fondly the way he does for Gladio. "You need to –"

Prompto isn't listening to him. No, Prompto's running towards –

Are those _swords_?!

"No!" Clarus bellows, and leaps again. 

Cor has the audacity to snigger at him. 

"Shut up," Clarus tells Cor over his shoulder. "Why do you even have a – are you using a _wine rack_ to hold _swords_ in?"

"I like to practice with a variety of types," Cor says, with absolutely no shame. "These are just the ones I keep at home."

"A home in which you now have a _child_ , Cor."

"Yes, I noticed that," Cor says dryly. "Better watch it, Clarus; he's going for the electric cables now."

Clarus twists and leaps again, all in one motion, and just barely manages to stop him in time. He didn't even notice the puppy getting out of his grip! 

At least the puppy hasn't started crying – if anything, it seems a very cheerful pup, and certainly a very excitable one. 

And _slippery_ , Six; he’s slipperier than one of the Tidemother’s coils. If Clarus isn't actively holding the pup, then he can be sure that the pup is getting into something potentially dangerous – of which there seem to be an almost infinite amount in Cor's apartment. Electric cables, weapons, a stove, a _portable stove_ – really, Cor? Everyone knows he doesn’t cook, so that must be for reheating leftovers – several sharp pens, large boxes, silverware...the puppy even nearly ends up locking himself in the _fridge_ at one point.

Clarus would complain, but he's panting too hard to say anything. He's a _tiger_ , damnit; he's meant for leisurely stalking and _then_ pouncing, not this outrageous leap-leap-leap that he's doing. 

This is far more in Cid's line. Sometimes Clarus really misses that ornery old jackrabbit...

"Drop him in the laundry," Cor advises. "He'll usually stay in that."

Clarus looks around frantically until he pinpoints what Cor means. Cor's apartment is practically spartan – very austere, with the barest requirements of living (mostly gifts from his friends and colleagues), clearly influenced by the habits of a military ‘taur trained in precision and sparsity since the age of thirteen – but there's a very uncharacteristic pile of clothing just left on the floor across from Cor's box. 

Very unlike Cor's usual neatness. Clearly a deliberate tactical maneuver. 

Clarus drops Prompto in the laundry pile and the puppy immediately starts rolling around happily, apparently content to gnaw on various old shirts and bury his face and hands and paws in various pieces of clothing as if he were trying to wiggle into them by force. 

At least he's staying _put_. That's all Clarus cares about right now, at least until he can catch his breath.

"You should come out into the training field more," Cor says innocently. "Work on your endurance."

"Why you little –" Clarus starts.

"What?" Cor asks, widening his eyes. It might've even worked with that babyface of his, but for the giant shit-eating grin that Clarus can read in the crinkling of Cor’s eyes. Cor might be subtle, but he’s not _that_ subtle, or at least not to those who know him well. "I was only proposing –"

"Stop proposing."

"As the King's Shield, you have a duty to stay in shape –"

"I'm in shape, you _impudent overgrown kitten_ ," Clarus growls. "As you very well know, I still train regularly. Children are just – a different level of exhausting."

Cor sighs, smile fading away. "Yes, as I've learned."

"If you're having trouble –"

"No trouble," Cor says. "And don't start on me about hiring a nursemaid again. There is exactly zero chance I'll let one of those gadflies in here again."

"They're not all bad," Clarus says, squishing down his mild feeling of agreement. It took Cyrella and him six different attempts before they were able to find someone who suited both them and Gladio, and that was when Gladio was still an infant – and while Clarus being an Amicitia was a draw for fame-seekers, his family is largely old news. Cor, the Immortal, the still young and very single Immortal...well. Plenty of unqualified people applied just to try to see him, and it had to be an awful time trying to screen them out. And that'd been just when they were looking for a housekeeper! "It just takes some time to find one that works out."

"And have my privacy invaded in the meantime? No, Clarus. I'm managing. I just needed some extra box time, that's all, and wasn't quite up to a Council meeting. You did say today's meeting was optional."

"You never skip optional meetings," Clarus says dryly. "That's what worried me."

"Prompto is still adjusting," Cor replies with a shrug. "When I tried to leave without him, he became very upset."

Clarus can see how it escalated from there – Prompto became upset, which upset Cor, who became anxious, and Prompto – who seems to have a sense for these things, in the few weeks Clarus has known him – began worrying about Cor, which made him _more_ upset...yes, that was indeed a recipe for trouble.

But wait –

"You've been back to work for ten days," Clarus points out. "How has he been dealing with the separation during the day? Don't tell me you found a daycare that would take him so quickly, and in the middle of the year..."

If Cor has, Clarus is going to kill him. They've been trying to get Gladio into a good one for _months_. 

"No," Cor says, frowning. "And there's been no problem –"

"You just _leave him here_?"

"Certainly _not_ , Clarus, really, don't be absurd. I take him with me."

"Really?" Clarus asks, starting to be amused. "I hadn't seen him in your office."

"I'm not in the office most days," Cor says. "It's fall; I'm still training recruits."

Clarus is silent for a long moment, working through the logic of that statement in his mind.

"Training recruits,” he finally says, his voice flat.

"Just the most promising ones, at this point; the rest have been shuffled into the usual cadet training."

"Recruits."

"Yes."

"Training."

"...yes?"

"Presumably occurring – on the training field?"

"Of course," Cor replies, clearly confused. "Where else?"

"You mean to say that you’ve been taking a _small child_ to the _training field_ where there are knives and swords being _thrown around_ –"

"Oh, _that_. Don't worry, we've built him a nice viewing wall."

"A _what_?" 

"It's a shield made of reinforced glass so that he can spectate safely. One of last year's recruits is watching him at all times."

Clarus huffs. To be fair, it doesn't sound like such a bad arrangement. Perhaps Gladio would enjoy it – he does so like watching fights on film already, a proper Amicitia Shield in the making –

He abruptly takes notice of the silence and twists to check that Prompto is still in the laundry. Gladio's long since taught Clarus to fear the sudden onset of silence. 

Prompto is indeed still in the laundry, but –

Clarus starts struggling up to his paws in alarm.

"Relax," Cor says, reaching out and snagging Clarus' shirtsleeve to tug him back. "That one's his favorite."

"Cor. _Cor_. That's a _sword_ he's chewing on!"

"Just the hilt," Cor protests, though he looks a little guilty. "I think he's teething, honestly – he's been chewing on that an awful lot the last few days or so –"

"Cor. I have only one question for you."

Cor raises his eyebrows.

"Is there, or is there not, an _actual sword_ attached to that hilt? Inside the scabbard, I mean?"

"...it's not sharp?"

" _Cor_!"

* * *

"All right," Cor says firmly. "We can do this. Together."

Prompto howls sadly.

"No, none of that. I need your cooperation here."

More howls – long, sad, aching things, a plea for mercy and a call for help.

If Cor wasn't already aware of how _melodramatic_ his new puppy could be – a little over a month in his company was more than enough to ferret that out - he might feel bad. 

As it is...

"Prompto. Howl all you want, but you still need a bath."

"No!" 

“You love going to the pool. Why are you so opposed to baths?”

“No bath! _No_!”

Cor picks Prompto up and carts him to the now-full bathtub anyway. 

"Noooooooo!"

"Why do you dislike baths?" Cor asks, mostly rhetorically since Prompto’s not about to answer. "They're necessary."

"Nooo-awooooooooh!"

Half 'no', half howl. Very impressive.

"I'll brush you after," Cor says coaxingly, reaching for Prompto's favorite brush. "You like brush time, right? Yes?"

Prompto, all red-faced and teary-eyed, nods. He does like brush time, though Cor suspects it's less the act of getting clean than it is about having Cor sit there for an hour carefully brushing all of Prompto's silky fur. Cor discovered how much Prompto enjoyed it within two days of meeting him – they hadn't even made it all the way back to Lucis by then. 

"Well, brush time comes _after_ the bath."

"No. _No bath_."

"I can't blow-dry you if you're not wet," Cor points out. "Remember how much fun you had with the blow dryer?"

"No."

Cor decides to pour out a glass of water for Leviathan, supposedly good luck before engaging in any sort of water-related battle, which this definitely was shaping up to be. He mutters the usual blessing for the many-headed Hydrean – Prompto is distracted from his tears and howls by the ritual, which he's clearly never seen before – and then turns back to deal with his very muddy puppy.

If logic isn't going to work, then bull-headed stubborn force is just going to have to do.

Prompto _does_ enjoy the blow-drying, at least. He keeps trying to bite the wind of it. So it clearly wasn't all so bad, even if Prompto does look as pathetic and bedraggled as the saddest wet kitten while he's being shampooed. 

Cor settles in for brush time. Prompto's pediatrician informed him that certain breeds of canidaetaur require regular brushing, far more often than the typically self-maintaining felidaetaurs do, and Cor set up a biweekly schedule for them. Prompto enjoys it, so he keeps it up, even if it's probably a bit overkill. 

As soon as Cor starts brushing, Prompto's tail starts wagging again and he makes happy little growling noises that Cor has already learned indicate pleasure.

About halfway through, though, he goes quiet. 

Cor lets him be – the puppy is clearly thinking about something, and Cor doesn't want to pressure him into trying to express himself too early. He's so young and helpless...

A very small hand falls on Cor's own, and Cor pauses in his brushing.

Prompto is looking at him with big, hopeful eyes. 

"Yes, Prompto?" Cor says encouragingly. "What is it?"

Prompto hesitates, then, very cautiously, his tail giving a few tentative wags, says, "...Da?"

"Ah," Cor says. Squeaks, really. He's – not ready for that. At all. "Maybe you should just call me 'Cor', okay?"

"Cor?"

"Yes. _Cor_. That’s me."

"Cor," Prompto repeats to himself, using much the same tone he used for 'Da'. "Cor."

"Yes."

Prompto smiles happily. "Cor!"

"That's me," Cor sighs. He foresees a lot of calling for him by name in the future. Somehow, though, that doesn't seem as annoying as it might have a few weeks back...

He starts brushing again, smiling at the happy expression on Prompto's face and the quick wagging of his tail.

Still, with all that, Prompto doesn’t use Cor’s name immediately after that – probably a result of trauma, Prompto’s doctor informs him in response to his questioning text, with Prompto still unsure of whether or not he can trust Cor not to disappear like presumably other individuals in his life have. Once he feels safe, or when there is an inciting incident, he will start using it, and then he probably won’t stop.

Cor finds himself oddly anticipatory.

It’s another two weeks before the inciting incident in question occurs.

Cor's just put Prompto to bed for the third and hopefully final time. The Inferniad, Ifrit's feast-day, is happening tomorrow: the winter solstice with its candle-lighting, its great hunts, feasts, and the sports of ice and snow, the banners and signs and flickering lights already everywhere. 

Perhaps unsurprisingly, Prompto has been increasingly excited to the point of overstimulation about it.

But at least for today, Prompto’s in bed at last (his _own_ bed, since they've firmly established that by now) and Cor’s finally gotten some time to himself.

What with there being a feast-day coming up, Cor opts to go indulge in some serious winter grooming – his winter coat has grown in, insofar as it ever does (damn his hot-blooded heritage) but that means there's plenty of shedding to be done, and Cor hasn't had sufficient time to really go after it for weeks. He's positively saturated with excess fur. 

Normally, he only lets it go this bad if he's been out on non-stop missions, and in those cases he usually goes to a grooming salon to really enjoy the process, but the missions recently have been fairly limited or easy enough that Cor's been able to delegate. The war with Niflheim is in something of a lull – sure, they're still at war, but Niflheim is still rebuilding its army from the disastrous fight against the Glacian Hind some years ago, and they've withdrawn the bulk of their forces to protect their established territory, leaving only thinly manned outposts throughout Duscae and Cleigne. Lucis has of course been taking advantage to reform and strengthen its ties with the larger and more vulnerable portions of its kingdom in preparation for the day when Niflheim will march again, but it's been pleasantly quiet in the meantime.

No, the only reason Cor hasn't been able to properly groom himself is currently asleep in the next room over. Having a puppy to care for is nearly as exhausting as battle – and notably more confusing. At least Cor _understands_ the crazy logic of battle. Child-logic, on the other hand, is still a mystery.

So Cor focuses on grooming in a utilitarian way, attacking the problem with brush and blow-dryer, until there's a giant pile of fur on the bathroom floor and he can finally go start a post-shed shower. 

"Awoooooooooo!"

Cor sighs into the stream of water. Prompto's awake. Again. Great.

"Cor! Cor!" Prompto wails. "Cor!"

Cor's eyes shoot open at the panic in Prompto's voice and he zips out of the shower. "What is it?" he demands.

Prompto, who is standing at the bathroom door, his hands in Cor's sheddings and tears in his eyes, looks up abruptly and leaps – a rather impressive leap, given his age – over to Cor, grabbing his leg with a firm grip and sobbing. "Cor, Cor," he sniffs.

Cor reaches down to pet him. "What's wrong?"

Prompto points at the shedding.

"What – about it?"

"No Cor," Prompto says. "Cor _gone_."

It takes a second for Cor to understand – Prompto went searching for Cor and found the pile of Cor-scented fur; he must have been afraid that Cor had somehow dissolved or something, the clever puppy – and another for his hackles to go down.

"It's okay," he says soothingly. "I'm here. It's okay."

Prompto is still clutching at him. 

“Come on,” Cor says. “Let’s get you back to bed.”

“Cor,” Prompto says, nuzzling at him, and for some reason Cor has to swallow down some sort of weird feeling not unlike pride. “Cor stay?”

“As best as I can,” Cor promises. “And sometimes I’ll have to go, but I’ll do my best to come back.”

He decides to let Prompto stay in Cor’s bed-nest tonight - rules be damned, the puppy just had a nasty shock - and leads him there by the hand. 

He can finish grooming in the morning. 

“Let me tell you again about Ifrit’s feast-day,” he says coaxingly, stroking Prompto’s soft fur until the shaking subsides. “If you think that’s exciting, wait until the turn of winter into spring – the Glaciad is in the early months, between the two solstices, and Shiva’s feast-day has even _more_ colors and decorations than Ifirit’s. Moreover, it’s the holiday of romance, and so it has chocolate…” 

Prompto barks in approval, having already become very familiar (and positively so) with the word and idea of chocolate.

“Yes, I _thought_ you’d like that…”

* * *

Cor is, despite himself, actually having a good time.

Prompto is getting a check-up at the doctor’s office, followed by his reward of playing in the playpen, and Clarus had agreed to watch him if Cor agreed to go out to discuss their arms importation situation with one of their key manufacturers at a pleasant little café over lunch. 

When it turned out that said manufacturer was a pretty Siamese ‘taur, Cor is entirely unsurprised; Clarus up to his usual matchmaking tricks again. He’d resigned himself to suffering for an hour of freedom, but Jordan turns out to be an interesting conversationalist – she collects rare swords, apparently, and has some opinions on the subject.

Subjects which she’s apparently passionate enough about to even forget that she’s talking with the Immortal, thank the Six. 

Cor agrees with some of her opinions and enjoys arguing with her about the remainder. 

Though, to be honest, having an adult conversation is almost enough by itself. With Prompto around, a remarkably number of his conversations have devolved into child-talk. 

(He’ll make Clarus’ day if he tell him he’d be willing to see her again, even if he’s still not actually attracted to her. She’s just another adult, with whom he can have a conversation; that’s definitely not enough of a base for mating. But possibly friendship…)

It’s almost a pity when his phone beeps a reminder that it’s time to go.

“Nice to meet you,” he says, standing up, and he even means it.

“Business calling?” she laughs. “I’m not surprised; being Marshal of the Crownsgard must leave you very little time for pleasure – not entirely unlike being a major manufacturer.”

“It is busy enough,” Cor agrees vaguely. It's not that he misses the hint that she, being similarly busy, wouldn't impose too much on his free time, should they decide to start meeting up more regularly, but he doesn't want to give her the wrong idea. “But in this case, I’m going to go pick up Prompto from his doctor’s visit.”

“Prompto? Is that your - son?”

...yeah, Cor’s still not ready for that. Just – emotionally. He’s not sure he’ll ever be ready – the terms ‘son’ and ‘father’ haven’t ever meant good things for him. 

“I’ve adopted him,” he says. Or, well, close enough - he _will_ adopt him as soon as that lawsuit finishes up.

“Adopt?" she asks, blinking her big eyes at him. "Really? I hadn’t heard you’d adopted.”

“Really?” Cor asks, a bit surprised. He’d thought every tabloid and major newspaper would have covered it by now. “It wasn’t that long ago.”

“Must have missed it,” Jordan says with a shrug. “Is he cheetah, like you?”

“No, a saluki.”

“A saluki…” She frowns. “Oh, wait, you mean that dog you took on?”

Cor feels his hackles shoot straight up. “That’s not a polite way to refer to canidaetaurs,” he says. 

“I didn’t think you’d actually _adopted_ him,” she says. “Wasn’t it some sort of work around? Keeping him as a pet?”

“Medical companion animal,” Cor says through gritted teeth. “In name only. You might’ve heard about the lawsuit.”

That had _definitely_ been covered in all the media.

“Right, right,” she says. “But why say you’ve adopted him, then? It makes it sound so permanent, and once you’ve succeeded in making your point, surely you can hand him off to someone more appropriate at that time.”

“Appropriate,” Cor says flatly. “Why would I not be appropriate?”

She finally catches on that he’s pissed off and squirms a little. “Oh, you know,” she temporizes. “Canidaetaurs are tricky, it’s better for them to be around others of their own type –”

“I see,” Cor says. 

“I don’t mean any _insult_ by it. Just that there are certain cultural traditions that can only be learned from one’s own breed.”

“Right,” Cor says. “The way I learned all about cheetah culture, I assume?”

“Oh – no – I mean - that’s _different_ –”

“Because I’m a felidaetaur raised by felidaetaurs?”

“Well – you must admit –”

“You’ll find that there’s very little I _must_ do,” Cor says icily. “Now if you don’t mind, I’m going to go pick up Prompto.”

“Why are you taking such offense?” Jordan demands, clearly flustered. “He’s not even really your son; you practically admitted as much.”

“The fact that I might not call him ‘son’,” Cor says through gritted teeth, “in no way makes him any less part of my family. Good day.”

“Will we see each other again?” she asks. “We’d been having such a good time until that unfortunate misunderstanding –”

“Nothing unfortunate about it,” Cor says. “More like – clarifying. And no. I don’t think we will.”

He leaves her at the table with the bill.

She’s an arms manufacturer. She can afford it.

In the meantime, he’s going to give Clarus a piece of his mind as to what sort of person he thinks is appropriate. Like Cor would _ever_ give even the time of day to someone who didn’t accept Prompto…

* * *

Cor puts Prompto down, despite the puppy's frantic attempts to scramble back up into his arms in an effort to escape.

"You'll enjoy this," he tells Prompto. 

"No!" Prompto yips, looking afraid.

"But you've already _met_ them,” Cor says coaxingly. Sure, it was a brief meeting, taking place months ago – an eternity in baby-time – but Prompto’s pediatrician recommended that Prompto be given some time to bond with Cor before being reintroduced to his peer group, as that could be overwhelming for him. 

"No!"

Much like this. 

Cor frowns and looks over at the two lounging feline kits. Gladio – who must be nearing four, now, being as he is a little over two and a half years older than the age they’d determined Prompto to be – looks like he has better things to be doing than playing with a new friend, but little Noctis, who is just about Prompto’s age (though unsurprisingly much more typical in terms of his vocabulary and speech level than Prompto is), looks very curious and is edging forward. 

"Yes," he tells Prompto. "No arguments. Go make friends."

"Friends!" Noctis says gleefully, reaching his stubby little arms out towards Prompto. 

Prompto stops yipping and whining at Cor in the face of this obvious welcome. He sniffs cautiously in Noctis' direction.

"Play with me," Noctis demands. 

"...play?" Prompto says hesitantly. He knows 'play'. He likes 'play'. 

His tail gives a very tentatively wag, though he's still keeping his distance. 

Noctis pouts at Prompto for his hesitation. Gladio watches the two of them suspiciously, his own tail lashing a bit in warning – both Clarus and Regis warned Cor that Gladio could be a bit possessive of Noctis, so Cor plans to keep an eye on that.

Luckily, Prompto hasn't yet figured out the difference between the warning tail wave of the wary felidaetaur and the happily wagging tail of the cheerful canidaetaur – no wonder diplomats and spies are required to take classes on body language – and he takes that as a good sign and edges just a little closer to them.

Noctis studies him and apparently decides that making friends is worth some personal sacrifice. He picks up a small, fat plushie and holds it out to Prompto. "You can play with Chubby, if you wanna," he says hopefully. "He's my _favorite_. Well, next to Carbuncle, but I can't share him."

Prompto – who is, as usual, clutching at his own Chocobo plushie, a fat ugly thing he's named Foof and from whom he is usually inseparable – looks amazed at this generous offer. He very tentatively holds Foof out. "Foof play too?"

"Sure!" Noctis exclaims, beaming. "Wanna be friends?"

Prompto's tail is now wagging at full speed. "Play!"

Cor shakes his head a little. The pediatrician he found, a refugee fox ‘taur from the borders of Niflheim, married to a Niflheim workhound, confirmed that Prompto is in fact rapidly making up his language development from his year of neglect, despite Cor’s concerns – sure, he still doesn’t speak much, but he understands plenty – and assured him that Prompto is young enough that constant company, particularly of his peers, will have his speech up to par in no time. 

"Keep an eye on them, will you?" Cor asks the babysitter - Gladio's nurse, a very pleasant housecat by the name of Finch. 

"Of course," she assures him. 

Cor would prefer to stay and supervise this first meeting (playdate; they're called playdates for children) himself, but unfortunately, he has a meeting which is most assuredly _not_ a playdate, and he doubts even the most gracious lawyer would enjoy having an unruly puppy in his office.

They'll just have to deal with having a puppy and two kittens in their lobby, instead, since today was apparently "Cor's day" to supervise the kittens (Regis all but made it a royal order) and he's been informed by a very pleasant Cyrella that until he baby-proofs his house, he is not to leave them there or else she'll tear his face off.

Cor believes her.

That being said, as neither Regis, Aulea, Clarus nor Cyrella asked Cor what his plans for the day were before dumping their kittens on him, Cor still has every intention of making his meeting with his lawyers. 

(Actually, if he thinks about it, preventing him from going to see his lawyers may have been part of the point...nah. Surely not.)

"I left three kitlings in your lobby," he informs his three main lawyers when he trots into the meeting room they usually reserve for when he visits. There's a lot of binders in there, but to be fair, there's a lot of cases that he's involved with, too. "Just so you know."

They react almost precisely as he expects them too. Tiberius Inlé, the black panther litigator that helps Cor start new cases, bares his teeth in a grin of amusement; he's the most aggressive of the three, unsurprisingly. He got his start as a barrister, appearing regularly to argue before the courts, but what drew Cor to select him was the fact that he started as a defender, both criminal defense and lobbying test-case litigation, and only later transitioned to general civil litigation. Tiberius certainly had the teeth for the more prestigious prosecutorial work (metaphorically speaking), but had opted for civil work regardless; his style had a certain intensity that came from knowing that your client's life could very well be on the line that Cor liked. 

Istherion Metaxas, an Insomnia-born bear that handles Cor's ongoing cases and whenever someone tries to complain about Cor's behavior – another former barrister, as it happens, since Cor firmly believes in a good offense being a good defense – rolls his eyes. He's more easy-going and affable than Tiberius' endless intensity; he explained once that he viewed being friendly as key to a peaceful resolution, whether via private settlement or court-appointed monitor, because it irritates the other side less. People often don't realize that friendly, cheerful Istherion is setting his claws in deep and ripping out every last inch of concessions he can manage until it's too late. 

And finally, there's Apollonia Scientia, the ibex – the only non-Lucian of the group, originally hailing from Tenebrae – narrows her eyes. She's Cor's main solicitor, in charge of filing general papers and other non-litigation matters, as well as general advice, and she's as tough as nails. The opposite of Tiberius, she is a former prosecutor, but just like him, she works exclusively in civil matters now. "Kitlings, you say?" she inquires. "Including your, ah, service companion?"

Her tone make it very clear what she thinks of that particular classification, and earns some nods of angry agreement from the others. 

Cor loves his lawyers.

"Yes, and some friends," Cor says. "I'd say they won't cause any disturbances, but I've been in the company of kits over several months now and I already know that would be a lie."

There's a loud crash from the lobby.

Cor winces. Disclaimers aside, he’d hoped there’d be at least a _little_ longer before the trouble started, but with kitlings around, things rarely ever seem to go as hoped. "I did leave them with a babysitter," he offers.

"It appears that stronger measures may need to be taken," Scientia says mildly. "I have something in mind. Tiberius, begin without me."

She leaves, leaving the three other ‘taurs staring after her.

"She's not capable of eating kitlings, right?" Cor asks, just to be sure. Scientia has an immensely commanding, even intimidating presence. If she wasn't devoted to the practice of law, Cor would've tried to recruit her to the Crownsguard.

(He asked anyway. She said no.)

As it is, she is one of the most sought-after attorneys in Insomnia; Cor was only able to obtain her services by (accidentally) passing the test of being able to meet her eyes the entire time while stating his case. He really was fearless at that age...

"I don't think so?" Istherion says, but there's definitely a question mark at the end of that sentence. "Ungulaetaurs are omnivorous, of course, like all ‘taurs, but they do traditionally prefer more vegetable-heavy diets..."

"They're known to have a genetic disposition to sensitive stomachs, sometimes resulting in a preference a vegetarian diets," Cor corrects. "No stereotypes, Istherion."

"Of course, of course. Forgive me; you’re entirely right. Well, Tiberius?"

"Indeed. Let us proceed on the agenda –"

Scientia returns after a short while, as placid as a battleship, and they go through all of the ongoing matters – the settlement monitor in place to survey the injunctions he obtained on the medical and insurance industries, the fund payouts, the new developments in the cases, the selection of judge for the newest case (Prompto's), more along those lines – and it's not until later that Cor notices how quiet it is.

"You didn't eat them, did you?" Cor asks Scientia, because he likes to live dangerously. 

She merely arches her eyebrows at him.

Cor goes to check.

There's a tiny little ibex kid – no more than a year older than Prompto and Noctis, a year younger than Gladio - leading the other three around in what is clearly some form of game.

Cor blinks.

Tiberius and Istherion, who followed him out, also blink.

Scientia looks smug. 

"...yours, I presume?" Cor asks. He wouldn't have guessed, but for the very similar coloring – even with them both being ibexes, Scientia never really struck him as much of a maternal figure. Though perhaps that’s being unnecessarily judgy – people don’t think of Cor as being particularly paternal, either. 

Except maybe Prompto, and he doesn’t count. 

"His name is Ignis," Scientia says, surveying the children with an expression of satisfaction. Noctis appears to be covered in pillows, which the other boys are stacking up on him under Ignis' supervision. They’re either building a fort or sentencing him to death by pressing, Cor isn’t sure which. "He needs more socialization in his own age group - he's very advanced for his age, and far prefers the company of adults, but socialization with one's peers is vital at this stage in terms of future social development. I’m qutie pleased to see that he appears to be enjoying the company of your puppy and his kitten friends; by this point he's usually left them behind to go start reading."

She frowns at the children, a moment of thought, and then her expression clears. "Yes, this will do quite well in terms of integrating him into his peer group, while being diversified enough not to hammer in any bad habits. You will permit him to join these group playdates again in the future?"

Cor blinks and processes that. "I don't see why not," he says at last. "They seem to be getting along."

"Excellent. Shall we conclude our business inside?"

They finish it up in blissful peace, and then, with Scientia’s blessing, Cor takes all four of the children (and the exhausted-looking nursemaid) back upstairs to continue play in his office, where he continues to be able to work in relative peace. 

"Cor," Regis says from the doorway, sometime later. 

"Yes, your Majesty?" Cor asks without looking up.

"We seem to have added a new member to the group," Regis says. He sounds amused. 

"Yes. They all seem very attached already, don't they?" Cor says, glancing over at where the children are still playing. The Chocobo plushies appear to be conducting flying battles now - of course impossible in real life given Chocobo anatomy, but any time he’s suggested as much to the children, he’s gotten roundly shushed and informed that these are a superior species Chocobos entirely capable of full flight. 

"Quite. Do I get to find out this new addition's name?"

"Ignis."

"An unusual name for an ibex. Judging by the state of play, a quite assertive and mature one, no less."

"He's Scientia's boy," Cor says, because really, that explains everything.

Regis blinks. "Indeed," he says, clearly at a loss of what to say as he processes that fact. Cor understands the feeling. 

"He'd have to be to control that lot," Cor points out.

"You're not wrong," Regis says, starting to smile. "And here I thought we'd need Shiva's personal intervention to make Noctis stop scratching at walls."

"Even Shiva's hooves aren't fast enough to stop Prompto from getting at mine," Cor agrees. "And not even Leviathan could catch Gladio when he's on a tear. Clearly, the only answer here is another kitling with just as much energy."

Regis laughs. "I don't disagree. Well, I'm glad; I've been hoping to introduce Noctis to more ungulaetaurs – they make up a considerable portion of our kingdom, after all, but we don’t have many nobles from their ranks. As a result, they all tend to be fairly wary when interacting with the prince..."

"Prince?" little Ignis squeaks, turning to glare at Noctis.

"I _said_!" Noctis protests.

"I thought you were _joking_."

"Joke!" Prompto says happily, and throws his plushie into Ignis' face, which seems to rather settle the issue by reigniting the ongoing Chocobo war. 

"Your Prompto's a good influence on them," Regis says. There's a thread of steely hardness in his voice – Cor knows his own prince ( _king_ , damnit, he's been king for years already, and yet Cor keeps slipping) well enough to understand that someone has been making comments about the appropriateness of Noctis playing with a canidaetaur at this vulnerable stage in his life, and that Regis has just solidified his position on the subject into a firm “fuck you and your prejudices” stance, a position from which he will now not be swayed. "In terms of his speech..."

"His understanding is significantly more expansive than his speech - the pediatrician says that it's normal for babies with trauma," Cor says. "I've been teaching him signing."

"Signing?" 

"In the event he doesn't want to be verbal but still wants to communicate," Cor explains. His foster mother used a similar technique with him to good effect, he recalls – they weren't all bad, his foster parents, just terribly poor and painfully pragmatic, almost callously so, and his bitterness about them did not forestall his understanding of that fact. But that bitterness, too, was a valuable lesson. Cor would rather declaw himself than abandon Prompto the way he was abandoned, and he was determined that Prompto should know it. 

Regis hums, watching the children play. "That's a good idea," he says. "What signs have you been using? I'll teach Noctis as well – there’s definitely situations where he struggles with articulating himself, and that might help."

"Just basic words to start with," Cor says with a shrug. "Eat, sleep, no, yes, play – that sort of thing, the same words that I'm teaching him to say out loud. That way, if he's feeling overwhelmed and doesn't want to talk, he can just sign at me instead of just bursting into tears because he's being made to talk."

"Does that _work_? Stopping the tears, I mean?"

"Well - sometimes?" 

"Sometimes is good enough for me. I'll take it," Regis says with a shrug. "Are the signs Lucian Sign Language? Or some simplified variants?"

"No, just LSL. It's already straightforward enough, and it'll make it easier to learn the full language when he gets old enough for it. Though obviously I'm teaching him some basic military signs as well."

"Military..?"

"Mostly 'stop'," Cor says dryly. "He's working on learning to actually do it."

Regis throws back his head and roars with laughter.

Somehow, it's always more impressive when lions do that, Cor thinks to himself, amused, and turns pointedly back to his work. Sometimes, Regis even agrees to take the hint.

Regis claps a hand on Cor's shoulder. "You know," he says warmly. "When you came back with the pup – four months ago, now? Six? – I must admit that I was a little concerned, but you've done a marvelous job."

Cor smiles.

"Now, about finding you a mate to go with the pup..."

Cor groans.

“You know, there’s lots of nice ‘taurs out there who find the whole ‘good father’ business _very_ attractive…”

“ _Regis_ …”

“I’m just saying!”


	5. 5

“Up is bad,” Cor says sternly, though he admits that stroking Prompto’s very soft stomach to keep him calm is not necessarily conveying the sternness he is going for. “Up is _bad_.”

“Bad,” Prompto says.

“Down is _good_.”

“Bad.”

“No. _Good_. If you stay down, you won’t knock over glasses and spill water all over and make loud noises that scare you.”

“Bad!” Prompto agrees, glaring at the table like it did him personal harm. There’s still a suspicious wetness at the corners of his eyes. 

Cor sighs and decides to avert the issue. “Would you like me to pick you up?”

Prompto’s face immediately clears at the mention of his favorite word. “Up!”

Cor picks him up. “You’re going to have to start speaking in longer sentences eventually, Prompto. I know you understand me.”

“Nuh-uh.”

“Really? Not a single word?”

“No.”

“Pity,” Cor says. “I guess I’ll have to leave the ice cream in the fridge –”

“No!” Prompto gasps. “No! Bad!”

“Ice cream is bad?” Cor asks, pretending to misunderstand. “I didn’t know you felt that way. Perhaps I should get rid of it…”

“No! Gimme ice cream!”

“Well – if you insist –” 

“Bad joke,” Prompto grumbles, but he’s already cheered up quite a bit by the time they get to the table. Cor – who holds grudges as dearly as his swords – doesn’t entirely understand how Prompto manages to be so forgiving, especially when Cor has been screwing this whole parenting thing right up from day one (he forgot to give Prompto a name! for _three days_! Clarus has already declare his intention to never let Cor live that one down), but he’s grateful for it nonetheless. 

Prompto usually speaks much better now, even occasionally spouting out full sentences and everything, just right for his age, though he’s recently taken to being sulky and uncommunicative at times – so unlike his puppyish tendency to want to be friends with everything while also being supremely confident that nothing could ever really want to hurt him, that Cor even took the drastic step of going to Clarus to ask for help. 

Clarus laughed in his face and said, “Welcome to the Terrible Twos, hah, hah, hah,” which had been _extremely_ unhelpful. 

However, Cor is Marshal of the Crownsguard, the Immortal, he who has been defeated only once in individual combat and even then only by a minor deity, and Cor does not make a habit of losing battles where he has time to develop sound strategy and tactics – so, of course, dealing with Prompto, he routinely resorts to outright bribery.

Ice cream usually works.

When Prompto is seated on his padded bench – Cor got him a proper child-sized one, with a little staircase up to the bench for short-legged children and a colorful pattern to the upholstery – and Cor has laid out bowls of ice cream for both of them, Cor looks at Prompto. "Tell me."

"Tell you what," Prompto grouses.

"You want something. Tell me what it is, and you might even get it. Don't tell me, and you definitely won't."

Prompto looks thoughtful as he works through the logic of that. "Can I getta box?"

Cor blinks. "A – stress box?"

"Yeah! I wanna box. Like Cor! And Gladio! And Noct! And –"

Yes, Cor can see where the impetus came from, even though canideataurs are traditionally not as fond of boxes as felidaetaurs – there was that famous possibly apocryphal battle that Niflheim won by planting boxes near the target site – and Prompto's occasional mimicry of felidaetaur traits is rarely long-lived enough to require actual furnishings. But on the other hand, biological desires are nothing when put against childhood envy...

"I'll obtain an additional box for you to use," Cor decides. "Do you want a cardboard one like me, or something more colorful?"

Noctis' box has zebra stripes. Regis shrugs helplessly and claims it was Noctis' own idea whenever anyone asks. 

"Like Cor," Prompto says firmly. Cor is amused by Prompto's loyalty, though he suspects seeing the boxes at the store will change Prompto's mind. Especially if they have anything Chocobo-related; Prompto is a fiend for those, and only moreso after he actually got to meet one of the creatures in person at a petting zoo last month. 

Prompto still has a squirrelly look to him, though, so clearly that's not everything.

"Anything else?" Cor asks. "More bubblewrap, maybe?"

Prompto's eyes go wide with desire, but he doesn't say anything. 

"No?"

Prompto makes the sign for 'stop' with his hand. Cor nods and digs into his ice cream instead – Prompto struggles with words sometimes, and pushing wouldn't help. 

Eventually, Prompto says, "I don't want a mamma."

Cor blinks again. "What?"

"Like Gladio and Noct and Iggy. I don't wanna share you. Even if they are nice. I still don't wanna."

"You don't want a –" Cor finishes playing Prompto’s sentence over in his mind for the third time before it clicks. "A _mother_?"

Prompto nods. 

"Uh," Cor says. "What? _Where_ did – _why_?"

"Well, Iggy said –"

"Ignis, while brilliant, is not always right," Cor says hastily. He doesn't want to know what Ignis said. It's probably based on something some adult said, because Ignis has ears like a bat.

Six. They're _children_. This is not a conversation he wants to have with children! 

"But he _said_ –"

"I'm not even dating anyone!"

"But –"

"New subject, I think," Cor says quickly, before Prompto can ask about dating. Or worse, ask about where kittens come from and what heats are. By the Leviathan's many heads, Cor thought he had _years_ before that discussion! This is worse than the time he had to explain what snurgling was, since apparently puppies, unlike kittens, don’t naturally knead their mothers’ bellies for more milk. "Any more requests?"

Prompto thinks about it. "Sleepover?"

"Certainly," Cor says with more than a little relief. He's left Prompto over at Gladio or Noctis' rooms plenty of times, usually when he had overnight missions. And during the worst of his heat leave, of course, since the subject's come up recently. "Where? Gladio's?"

"No – here!"

Cor wrinkles his nose at the thought of hosting _four_ rambunctious children, especially given the clean-up and child-proofing of the apartment that it would entail, but he supposes it's about time for him to reciprocate. "I don't see why not."

Prompto looks pleased.

Too pleased.

"Was that _planned_?" Cor asks, suddenly suspicious.

Prompto beams at him, gap-toothed and adorable. "Iggy said it'd work!" he crows. "First you ask about mammas, and then growed-ups give you whatever you want to make you stop!"

"You little sneak," Cor says with a smile. "Tell Ignis that the trick only works once, but that I applaud him – and you – on the early grasp of tactics."

"Tactics?"

"Deciding how to fight a battle. Would my budding little tactician want more ice cream?"

"Yeah!"

The sleepover takes place that night - it's easy enough to arrange, as they all live in or near the giant Citadel, even Scientia, and a few phone calls is enough to set the date and time - and Cor even makes the extra effort to put away all of his spare weaponry instead of the some that he'd been originally thinking. After all, now that he thinks of it, Prompto may have learned to be moderately cautious with sharp objects, but Cor doesn't want to have to explain to Regis why the Prince of Lucis is now missing a paw because he pounced on a morningstar or something.

(He makes the mistake of mentioning this to Regis, thinking it was funny, but Regis was oddly fixated on why Cor has a morningstar at all to begin with – to practice with, _obviously_ , what if that's the only thing he can pull off an opponent? – and who in the world still uses morningstars outside of a pre-Solheim Renaissance reenactments, to which Cor just says "Niflheim" on repeat because the Empire is technologically advanced but also weirdly infatuated with the past regardless of any sense. Then he escaped before Regis thought to move on to asking why Cor has a morningstar in his _bedroom_ , because he’s pretty sure ‘I needed something appropriately weighted to show Prompto how one juggles weapons’ wasn’t going to be received well.)

Luckily, the boys spend most of the evening just looking at the various locked-away weapons Cor has, oohing and aahing as Prompto very importantly explains the difference between a katana and a great-sword and a short sword based on cobbled-together pieces of Cor's own attempted explanations. He does so very earnestly and _very_ incorrectly, but Cor's just happy that they're keeping themselves busy until dinner, and after dinner he plops them down in front of the television to watch Chocobo and Friends: The Feature Film for the fiftieth time. No problem.

Honestly, these sleepovers aren't nearly stressful as Regis and Clarus are constantly making them out to be. 

Of course, then it's time for bed. 

"Cor! Cor!" Prompto yips, leaping around excitedly, tail wagging frantically. "Noctis says we wanna bedtime story!"

"Yeah!" Noctis cheers. "Bedtime story! We! Want! Stories!"

Gladio and Ignis seem equally enthused by the idea and immediately join the chant. 

The only problem, of course, is that Cor's never told a bedtime story in his life. Prompto usually just conks straight out after a busy day. 

"You meant you want me to read you a book?" he asks hopefully, but all the boys shake their heads so hard their butts waggle along with their tails. "I don't know any stories."

"Tell us about ancient Solheim!" Noctis exclaims. "And how everyone used to be humans instead of 'taurs and how they all worked together until the Astrals got into the big war with each other and started summoning big magics, really big magics, until one day one of the big magics went wrong and everyone became a ‘taur as a side effect!"

"You just _told_ that story, Noct," Gladio says. 

"Oh. Right."

"I wouldn't object to a story about the Astrals shedding their original human forms for 'taur forms," Ignis offers, his eyes shining bright. "How they took on the 'taur forms of ancient legend: Shiva becoming the Ceryneian Hind, Leviathan the Lernean Hydra, Ifrit the Erymanthian Boar –"

"And Titan the Cretan Bull and Bahamut the Hesperidian Dragon, we know all that one!" Noctis says, rolling his eyes. "There are pictures of them all over the Citadel!"

"I saw Ramuh manifest once," Cor offers. "As the Stymphalian Birds – all those thousands and thousands of birds, all suddenly whirling together until they formed his shape in the sky."

All four boys suddenly pin their eyes on him. "Tell us more," Gladio demands.

"That's it," Cor says, taken aback by their enthusiasm. "That's all that happened."

"But what _caused_ it? A battle? A war? A _summoner_?"

"Nothing more interesting than a rather big storm, I think," Cor says. "I was just passing through at the time. Didn’t see anything more than that."

"Awwwwwww," the boys chorus, looking disappointed.

"Did the birds form into his Nemean Lion 'taur form or his Cerberean Hound form?" Ignis asks, clearly determined to keep digging. "That's supposed to be an omen, you know, which one he picks each year on the Fulgariad at the peak moment of the spring solstice…"

"I didn't stay to check," Cor says dryly. "It was raining.”

"That's not a good story," Noctis grumbles. 

"Can we have a story about a battle?" Gladio asks.

"Yeah!" Prompto exclaims. "Cor's been in a _lot_ of battles! Real life battles!"

"Yeah!" Noctis cheers. "Real battles! Tell us!"

Cor, who has in fact been in many, many battles in his lifetime, reviews them mentally and determines quickly that none of them make for appropriate telling for children. How to explain the blood and oil, the sight of them or the stench of them, mixing in the air with the smell of earth as the ground is chewed up beneath their paws, the sticky daemonic miasma spilling out of their thousands of ghastly forms, and the pain of screaming muscles and the settling in your belly of that ice-cold ruthlessness necessary to keep going even when you see others, even others you know, others you’ve trained yourself and broke bread with not a few hours earlier, die before your eyes?

He's sure there must be a way to clean up the narrative until it’s child-appropriate, but the only experience he’s ever had with cleaning up battlefield narratives is –

Huh. That gives him an idea, actually. 

"If you all settle in, I'll read you a story about a real life battle," Cor says.

The children almost injure themselves getting under their blankets, they move so fast. 

Cor, meanwhile, goes to his desk and picks up the first mission report he can find. "Report, dated 3.1.738," he reads aloud to the enraptured children. "Advance position of the Crownsguard summoned to deal with reports of an infestation of Goblins, which have reputedly taken over local mine..."

The next day, Regis calls Cor in the middle of training.

"Did you read my son a _mission report_?!"

"He seemed to enjoy it," Cor says with a frown, gesturing for the other Crownsguard to continue without him as he talks on the phone. "I'm sorry – did he have nightmares?"

Cor hadn’t noticed any, but then he’d also been asleep in the next room over at the childrens’ insistence. 

"No," Regis says. "He _loved_ it. Apparently, he and his friends now imagine the Crownsguard as some sort of club of adventuring heroes, complete with plate armor and implausible animal companions, going together on a dungeon crawl while armed primarily with knowledge of advanced maneuvers capable of defeating any enemy. I only realized that the story he was telling me was based on _reality_ because of how they dealt with that quadruple Flan attack at the end – it was very distinctive."

"It was," Cor agrees, very sincerely. He hates Flans – both the custardy dessert and the daemons that resembled and were named after them. "So if he didn't have nightmares, what's the problem?"

"The _problem_ , Cor, is that now he wants _more_ of these stories! Stories based on _real life reports_! Fiction apparently isn't good enough anymore!"

"So? You have access to the mission reports too. Plenty of them available."

"That isn't the point!"

"Then what _is_ the point?"

"The point is – oh, by Ifrit's flaming hooves! Never mind!"

Cor blinks at his phone and shrugs. 

Honestly, you just can't please some people.

* * *

It’s not so much that it’s something they try to avoid discussing, but Regis must admit he’d been hoping the children would be older the first time they had to discuss the subject of interspecies bigotry. 

It starts when they're at the park by the planetarium on yet another family-and-friends outing.

Regis is swiftly losing hope in Noctis being interested in the stars despite (perhaps because of?) his namesake relation to them, but little Ignis and Gladio are quite fond of the planetarium, and little Prompto seems intent on liking everything his new friends do, so Noctis can be convinced to go with promises of getting some ice cream afterwards.

Regis was away buying the ice cream when the whole thing starts up, of _course_ he is, and no one thinks to call or text him when interesting things are happening because, after all, he's _just_ their monarch and _obviously_ there's no need to keep him informed. 

"Stop whining," Clarus hisses when Regis comes back, his eyes fixed on where Cor is standing by the oak tree, his tail twitching in a very casual, standard sort of way that by its very overwhelming casualness reveals nervousness to those who know him well. "He's _talking_ to them."

Them, of course, being a pair of cheetah ‘taurs.

Cheetah _women_. 

(There haven’t been new cheetahs in Insomnia for a while, as Regis is well aware, and Cor is on familiar though not necessarily good terms with all of them. These ones, though, these ones are unfamiliar. New.)

"Why's everyone staring?" Prompto asks, leaping a little to try to see better. Regis can scarcely recall the quivering little puppy, still afraid of the sound of his own voice and full of nervous excitement, that he’d been at the start – though in terms of being full of excitement, not much has actually changed now that the boisterous excitement of the others has rubbed off on him in the past year and a half. "What's so interesting about Cor talking with some people?"

Regis settles himself down onto his belly so as to better be able to speak with him. "Cor is a cheetah," he explains. "That's a very rare type of 'taur. Those people he's talking to? They're _also_ cheetahs."

"Oh," Prompto says, but he clearly doesn't quite understand. "And that's important...?"

"It's cool to meet someone who's the same type of ‘taur as you," Gladio tells him. "Take Noct, here; he's a lion, and there's only a small number of lion families."

"Comparatively small," Regis corrects: there's quite a few scattered around Lucis, but Noctis, sad to say, has mostly met the ones who are not so closely related that they feel entitled to start angling to try to entice him into a marriage.

_Already_.

Regis has never liked the burden of the expectation that the royal family of Lucis _must_ be lions - wasn't being King and bearing the destiny of Lucis on their backs enough? - but he particularly disliked it when people began political maneuvers based on that expectation. Regis, who had married a lioness 'taur more by accident than by design and certainly not due to any stupid social expectation, had no idea where these 'taurs got the idea that he would approve of their maneuvering their sons and daughters into some sort of a relationship with Noctis, especially when he's barely more than a _kitling_. Whatever advantage those families think to gain by trying to force a friendship between Noctis and their children is going to be cancelled out because _Regis_ is going to disapprove of it. 

Prompto seems to be thinking the matter over. "So, it would be cool to see more people like me?" he asks, gesturing at his fluffy tail.

His fluffy _canidaetaur_ tail.

"I don't see why it wouldn't be," Regis temporizes. "There are clubs, actually -"

"Whole clubs?" Prompto asks, eyes wide. "Of salukis like me?"

Regis had actually meant canidaetaurs, and finds himself scrambling to come up with an answer - and feeling rather boorish about it, since he _knows_ he doesn't like people who think canidaetaurs are all the same, and here he is, making a positive monkey's hoof of himself doing exactly the same thing when Prompto probably would've been satisfied with Regis pointing out that there were plenty of housecat 'taurs who were equally yellow in color - when Noctis laughs.

They all look at him.

"Uncle Clarus is gonna try and set him up," he declares, nodding at Cor and the cheetahs. 

"Set him up?" Prompto asks.

"Arrange a romantic match between them," Ignis clarifies. “Look at King Regis and Queen Aulea, who are both lions, Minister Amicita and his wife both being tigers -"

"You could get a _mom_ , Prompto. For real this time," Gladio teases Prompto, who looks more than a little horrified by the idea. 

"I don't think that's exactly likely to be a risk anytime soon," Regis says diplomatically, since Clarus almost certainly _is_ going to try to set Cor up with one of them – or possibly both, why not? – but he also doesn’t think Cor is going to do anything rash about it even if he does agree to start seeing someone. 

For all of his resistance to letting Prompto calling him ‘Dad’, a resistance Prompto has since picked up with snobbish but heartfelt declarations that everyone had a Dad but not everyone had a Cor, Cor very much fills that role. He would never introduce anyone into Prompto’s life that he didn’t think Prompto would like.

“Why would I get a mom just because she’s a cheetah like Cor?” Prompto demands, looking frazzled. “We don’t even know if they’re _nice_!”

“Well,” Ignis says, looking hesitant. “I mean, lots of people are attracted to 'taurs of their own variety, I guess? It’s always been that way.”

“People haven’t even always been _‘taurs_ ,” Prompto points out, putting his fists on his waist and glaring. “We were all human once upon a time, right? Like in the old stories? So it can’t just be the way it’s always been. So why would people assume that Cor’s gotta date another cheetah?”

“People just think that way about certain things,” Gladio offers with a shrug. “Stereotypes, I think they’re called? Like about felidaetaurs and canidaetaurs always fighting 'cause they're like cats and dogs. I guess people think, y’know, that ‘taurs of the same types just – get along better, I guess?”

Regis winces. 

“Get along _better_?” Prompto demands, his voice going shrill. “None of _us_ are the same type, but we get along great! Gladio, you’ve always gotten along with Noctis, haven’t you?”

“Well – yes – but - I mean - we’re both big cats –”

“And I’m a canidaetaur and Ignis is an ungulataur! And _we_ get along, don’t we?”

“Prompto’s right,” Noctis says, frowning. “Everyone’s always joking about how I’m gonna marry another lion when I grow up, but why couldn’t I marry someone like Prompto?” His eyes go wide. “Wait. Why _can’t_ I just marry Prompto? Is it just because he’s a different type of ‘taur?”

This is swiftly getting out of hand, particularly as all the children are turning to look at Regis now with questions in their eyes. 

Questions Regis doesn’t really have good answers for.

“Ah,” Regis says. “Sometimes – people will have, uh, expectations of things – things that people don’t necessarily _have_ to do, but do because it’s normal – sorry, not _normal_ , but – er – _seen_ as normal – that is, that it’s more common – _Clarus give me some help here I am your king I order you_.”

Clarus, who’d turned away from Cor and the cheetahs, shrugs helplessly. “I don’t know how to explain how society developed certain imposed sociocultural expectations!”

Regis can _see_ Ignis making a mental note of the phrase, presumably to look up later – and, should it be too complex for him to understand on his own, to ask his mother about. 

Six, Counsel Scientia is going to _kill him_ , and not even being king is going to help him.

“In nature, most species don’t interbreed with other species,” he adds desperately. “When the original transition was made from human to ‘taur, it was initially assumed that the same applied to ‘taurs, which of course it doesn’t. And, uh, based on that – on what animals do, I mean, and that initial misunderstanding – some people – wrong people, definitely wrong people – get it into their heads that ‘taurs ought to segregate – that is, separate themselves out – the same way –”

“But we’re not like animals ‘cause we’re all one species,” Gladio says, frowning. “We’re all ‘taurs. Right?”

“Yes, of course we are,” Regis says quickly. “But – in appearance – and, uh, medically – some minor variations – not that it impedes interbreeding between species appearances, of course –”

“What are we discussing?” Cor asks, appearing. He must have finished talking with the cheetahs. 

“Cor, tell us why people think people should marry ‘taurs like them,” Noctis demands. “Dad’s sticking his paw in his mouth about it.”

Such filial loyalty; be still Regis’ hearts. 

Not that he disagrees with Noctis’ assessment.

“Oh, that,” Cor says. “People many years ago thought certain stupid things because they didn’t know better and now people use that fact to pretend to support being mean to people they don’t like even though we now _do_ know better in order to convince other people who think an idea is good just because it’s old.”

“…so basically it’s just that some people are being dumb?” Gladio says.

“Exactly.”

The children consider this and nod. “Makes sense,” Prompto says.

“Seems reasonable,” Ignis agrees. “I’ve met plenty of stupid people.”

“Lots,” Gladio agrees.

“Whatever,” Noctis decides, and Regis is deeply happy that the children have all decided to shelve the issue, at least for now. Explaining systematic racism and bigotry – not to mention the way it interacts with the endless ongoing war with Niflheim – is something Regis is very much planning on leaving to the school system. 

Or at the very least to Aulea. Regis is confident that his wife can handle this much better than he can.

“Anyway, that settles it,” Noctis continues. “I’m gonna marry Prompto instead of a lion ‘taur!”

“When was this decided?” Cor asks, glancing over at Regis.

“Uh,” Regis says, and decides that everyone needs more ice cream right away and he’d be more than happy to go do it himself, being as he is the monarch and therefore has the inalienable right to absent himself from awkward situations by making these sorts of important decisions.

Whatever Clarus accuses him of later, he’s _not_ running away.

Well. 

Maybe a little.

* * *

"- I don't _care_ what the reasoning is," Cor hisses into his phone. "Imposing any type of ‘taur type-based analysis into our defense strategies – much less using them to decide on how far we pull back the Wall at all, which as you know I’m already opposed to – as it is a bad idea on _every level_ – tactically, strategically, _morally_ –"

"But not politically," Clarus replies, sounding grim. "I'm not any happier about it than you are –"

"You're _going along with it_!"

"The Council is arguing that we don't have a choice –"

"There are situations without a choice," Cor says. "This isn't one of them. This is a situation where the choice is _difficult_ and _unpleasant_. They're not the same; don't delude yourself –"

"Cor, the populace –"

"The populace is composed of more people than the felidaetaur nobility, who are the only ones going to be appeased by an act that leaves everyone else in the entirety of Lucis practically _defenseless_ –"

"I know that! But there aren't enough advocates opposing the plan, which makes it seem strong enough for Regis to consider – if no one else can appear to explain the issues with the proposal from a popular standpoint –"

"I'll find some people," Cor snarls. He's very nearly at full hissing and spitting mode. "Or better yet, I'll find Councilor Taceo and I'll rip his _cowardly hindquarters_ into –"

Then he yelps. 

"Cor?"

Cor turns and looks at the very innocent-looking puppy clutching onto his tail with an impish smile. 

"Sorry, I got distracted," he says, calmer. Seeing Prompto calm and happy has been remarkably good for his anxiety and temper, surprisingly enough. 

Apparently there _is_ something to the whole therapy animal helping you feel better business, not that Cor will ever admit it.

Not least because his lawsuit against the foster system is still winding its slow way through the courts, even as a whole new legion of people applying to bring Niflheim refugees into Lestallum under the therapy animal bypass (now popularly known as a Leonis Adoption, because people like to name things after Cor for some Astral-forsaken reason) has popped up in the meantime. That's managed to piss off the people who installed the awful adoption system _even more_ , which Cor is all for. 

"What was I saying?" he asks.

"Something about Councilor Taceo's hindquarters," Clarus says dryly. 

"Titan's horns," Cor sighs, reluctantly letting go of the (rather tempting) idea of committing in-person violence. It wouldn't be a fair fight, anyway; that's why Cor generally prefers to do his intra-Insomnia fighting in the courtroom. Honestly, the only non-Crownsguard people who could give him a decent fight nowadays are Clarus, Regis, and maybe that new Drautos fellow who was some sort of Captain back where he came from – some distant part of Cleigne, Cor recalls. He’s short and stocky and powerful, classic hyena 'taur build, and he’s both level-headed in battle and effective in terms of his grasp of strategy and tactics. They really do have to find a good use for him somewhere, even if Cor doesn't particularly like him personally. Not that he can identify any particular reason for his dislike; maybe they just haven’t clicked... "Right. Never mind that. Is there any time left to oppose the idea?"

"That's why I'm calling you, not that you let me _get_ to saying that. We're arranging hearings on how to analyze the Wall question two weeks from Friday; that should get you enough time to try to gather enough people to sway the Councilors still on the fence."

"I'm on it," Cor says, already thinking about who he can get, his tail lashing agitatedly in the air again. This Wall thing has come cropping up again and again ever since the first one was established back when Regis was still a prince – back when they still thought they could protect all of Lucis with it, rather than just Insomnia, which is unfortunately turning out to be more plausible – and he’s increasingly sure that he won’t be able to hold back the tide of popular opinion in Insomnia against wanting a lot of magic protection for their city and their city alone, rather than a little for everywhere. But at the _very_ least, Cor should be able to prevent any type-based discrimination as to what parts of Insomnia will be covered from being baked into the whole idea from the very start…

Prompto pounces for his tail again.

This time, Cor dodges. 

He needs to stay angry right now or else he’ll never get anything done. 

"On a different subject, are we still taking the kids out for a drive this weekend?" he asks Clarus, since talking about this proposal any further will just raise his blood pressure and make Prompto keep poucing on him. "Prompto's looking forward to it."

Prompto nods furiously. 

"Wants to stick his head out the window again, I'll wager," Clarus complains good-naturedly. "You know he's taught all the others to do the same?"

"He's a puppy, Clarus, they do that."

“He hasn’t been a puppy in years and you know it.”

“A canidaetaur child, then, but the point still stands. Or are you going to start complaining about the way they like to turn around three times before bed, too?”

"Thank the Six Gladio hasn’t picked that up; he’d be absolutely insufferable about it and it’s just like him to just decide to do that. Anyway, we're still on for this weekend – Regis even got the Regalia fixed up after, uh, last time."

"That car has been in worse crashes," Cor says dismissively. "Regis is just an old worrywart over that car. It was barely dinged!"

"The trunk was _caved in_."

"We barely even _use_ the trunk."

" _Not_ the point. Can you believe how old they've gotten?"

"The grand old age of three years old, for Prompto," Cor says, shaking his head. "And you said the _twos_ were terrible."

"Gladio's finally entering the cute child stage and it only took him till he was five," Clarus says gleefully. "I can't wait."

Cor smiles. 

"And with Iggy's help, he'll be the best-prepared kid in his first grade class. I still don't know how Scientia convinces them to study when they're at her place –"

"Force of personality," Cor replies promptly. "And bribes. She's a great cook."

"Well, the way to Gladio's hearts is definitely through his belly..."

“Which one, his primary or his vestigial?”

“ _Both_.”

Cor laughs. "Yeah, Prompto, too. See you this weekend."

Cor clicks off the phone and turns to look at Prompto, whose tail is wagging fiercel with anticipation. He knows very well the punishment for grabbing Cor’s tail when he’s on the phone. 

Cor takes a step forward menacingly. 

Prompto shrieks happily and runs away, but as quick as he's getting, he's still no match for a cheetah.

Certainly not a cheetah intent on tickling him.

Cor never said the punishment was something Prompto sought to avoid. 

In fact, Cor has been making a point of repeatedly reassuring Prompto verbally that that he appreciates Prompto’s help in calming him down – Prompto still has those insecurities that hound him (no speciesist pun intended), and Cor has been working with Prompto’s therapist about trying to help him with those.

Hopefully the preschool he’ll be starting soon will be good for him in that respect – Prompto’s always liked the company of other children his age…

* * *

“I’m home!" Cor calls, the groceries in his arms. That’s normally enough to make Prompto come running to find him, tail wagging like mad and nose wrinkled up like he’s trying to smell out the contents of the groceries to see what surprise Cor has gotten for him this time. 

Today’s surprise is a bottle of Prompto’s favorite soda. Cor usually doesn’t let him have it, since it makes him particularly hyper, but today they released a version with a special Chocobo print on it, so Cor decided to make an exception.

After all, Prompto’s just finished his first month at preschool, and his teachers say he’s been adjusting very well. That’s worth a nice surprise. 

But today: no Prompto.

Cor tilts his head, frowning. Did he not come back from the preschool today? He should’ve been dropped off by the preschool aide – 

He hears sniffling. 

“Prompto?” Cor calls, putting the groceries down and heading back towards Prompto’s bedroom. “Prom?”

No response.

“Hey, you okay in here –?”

He walks into Prompto’s bedroom and sees – 

“Prompto!” Cor exclaims.

Prompto is curled up behind his bed, sniffling as his eyes are streaming over with tears. He’s got one of his scented markers in his hand, the black one, and it looks like he’s drawing all over himself with it.

He looks up at Cor, his lower lip trembling, his cheeks wet and his eyes red and his nose running. “I – I was –” he starts, then trails off, looking down at his marker-strained hands and then back up at Cor. “I just –” 

His voice catches in his throat and the marker drops from his hand.

As if clutching onto the marker was the only thing keeping him even remotely intact, Prompto bursts into tears, raising his hands to hide his face as he sobs.

Cor stares at him in horror. It’s been a while since Prompto’s gotten this worked up – he’s really upset this time, too, absolutely in pieces, and Cor had _no idea_ this was coming –

He shakes off his paralysis and drops down to sit on all four legs on the floor, pulling Prompto into his arms. “Hey, hey,” he says gently as Prompto wails and buries his head in Cor’s shoulder. “It’s okay, it’s okay. I’m not mad at you. It’s okay.”

Prompto pulls back just long enough to shake his head frantically before putting his head back. His nose is definitely running. 

“C’mon,” Cor says coaxingly. “You can tell me. What’s with the marker, kiddo?”

From this close, Cor can see that there’s a design to the marker-marks on Prompto’s clean fur – something like polka dots. 

Or like spots.

“They said –” Prompto sobs. “They _said_ –”

“Who said? What did they say?”

“The kids – the kids at school – they said – they said I was a dirty canine Niff n’ that you weren’t my dad just ‘cuz I don’t got spots like you –”

“Shh,” Cor says soothingly, reminding himself that it’s in bad taste to contemplate murdering three and four-year-olds. “Shhh. You know that’s not true.”

“They said that’s why you won’t really adopt me,” Prompto sniffs. “Because I don’t got spots.”

“Now that’s bullshit.”

Prompto yips, eyes going wide. “Cor,” he says sternly, or as sternly as he can manage when he’s still trying to wipe his eyes with one marker-stained hand. “You just said a bad word.”

“I’m a grown-up,” Cor says. “I’m allowed, when the situation calls for it. And that is, in fact, bullshit.”

Prompto snorts a little.

“Bullcrap, even,” Cor adds, watching as Prompto presses his lips together and puts his head back on Cor’s shoulder – but this time he’s not trying to hide tears. “A bull crap the size of Titan.”

Prompto starts giggling.

“You know, Astrals are supposed to be as tall as the sky,” Cor says. “So if you know if it’s bullshit worthy of the Archean Bull, it’s _really_ big.”

“Cor, you’re being silly!”

“So are you,” Cor says gently. “You know how we go see the lawyers on level fourteen every two weeks? You remember how one of the cases I’m doing is about you?”

“Uh-huh.”

“That’s my case against the government to give me the right to formally adopt you,” Cor explains. “I’m fighting every single last person in the Lucian foster care system, every one of them, just so I have the right to adopt you, which I can’t do right now. So don’t let _anyone_ tell you that I’m not adopting you because of something as stupid and arbitrary as what your hindquarters are. I might not have the right to call you my son legally, but you’re mine in every other way. Every way that really matters.”

“Even though I don’t call you Dad?”

“You don’t call me Dad because I don’t like the word Dad,” Cor says. “But you’re still my son.”

Prompto sniffs, and pulls his head back, smiling a watery little smile. “But they said – they said I was a _Niff_. Am I a Niff, Cor? Just ‘cause I’m a canidaetaur?”

Cor settles back on his hindquarters and looks Prompto in the eyes. “You were born in Niflheim,” he says, weighing his words carefully. This is important to get right. “Most canidaetaurs have some Niflheim ancestry, that’s true. But it doesn’t matter. You were raised in Insomnia. As far as I’m concerned, that makes you as Lucian as I am, and that means you’re not a Niff.”

“But –”

“You know how I told you about when I was a baby?” Cor asks. “Where was I born?”

Prompto rubs his nose on his sleeve. Cor lets it go this once. “You don’t know where you were born,” Prompto recites obediently. “’cuz your parents left you and you don’t know who they are.”

“That’s right,” Cor says. “But no matter where I was born, it wouldn’t matter. There’s some people who would think that it matters, but they’re wrong. I would’ve come and applied for the Crownsguard anyway.”

He decides not to go into the complex history of anti-immigrant prejudice in Lucis right now – feeling his slow way towards explaining interspecies prejudice at an age-appropriate level is hard enough, it doesn't need to come up when Prompto's already upset. 

Prompto sniffs and nods. 

“Besides, no matter what, I still would be able to kick the ass of any person who said otherwise,” Cor adds. 

Prompto giggles, though it’s still quite wet. 

“Besides, the fact that you’re canidaetaur and I’m a felidaetaur doesn’t actually mean anything,” Cor continues. “You _could’ve_ been mine.”

Prompto blinks wide eyes at him. “Really?”

“You know what,” Cor says. “We’re going on a field trip to consult an expert.”

He stands up and takes Prompto’s hand in his, leading him out of their apartment and over to the elevator. 

One big advantage to living in Citadel, Cor reflects, is that you’re never far away from a helping hand.

He knocks on Clarus’ office door.

“Come in!”

Cor lets himself in. Clarus is still working at his desk, his inbox and outbox as large as they ever are. His wife, Cyrella, is reading in the couch by the window. 

“Cor,” Clarus says, smiling when he sees it’s not more work. “And little Prompto, too.”

“Hi, Gladio’s dad,” Prompto says shyly. “Hi, Gladio’s mom.”

“Hi, Prompto,” Cyrella says, smiling.

“To what do we owe the pleasure?” Clarus asks. 

“Some of the kitlings in Prompto’s school –” Cor starts. 

“They’re not kitlings,” Prompto objects. “They’re all growed up children, like me.”

“When they say stupid things, they’re kitlings,” Cor says firmly. “They were telling Prompto here that he couldn’t be my kid because I have spots and a felidaetaur tail, and he didn’t.”

“Well, that’s absurd,” Clarus laughs, gesturing for Prompto to come closer. 

Prompto edges closer.

“Do you see this photograph?” Clarus says, turning a picture frame on his desk around so Prompto can see it.

Prompto nods. “It’s a bear ‘taur.”

“My mother,” Clarus says proudly. 

Prompto’s eyes go wide. “Really? But…”

“But I’m a tiger ‘taur?”

“Yeah! And Gladio’s mom’s a tiger, and that’s why Gladio’s a tiger, too!”

“Not necessarily,” Clarus explains. Cor settles himself in; he’s heard Clarus do this explanation for Gladio and Noctis already, and he suspects Ignis got a similar version from his mother. It’s about time that Prompto got the same talk. “You see, all ‘taurs can interbreed and have children together – no matter what species of animal we might resemble. Canidaetaur, felidaetaur, ungulaetaur, it’s all the same. And when two ‘taurs of different animal species mate have a kitling together, the kitling will inherit the phenotype – that means ‘appearance’ – of one of the parents. I inherited my father’s phenotype, so I’m a tiger like he was, but I _could_ have been a bear like my mother.”

Prompto nods, looking fascinated.

“That doesn’t end the question, though,” Clarus continues. “There’s what we call ‘genetic drift’, which means that a mixed heritage like mine means that my children could be different phenotypes from what I am. So even though I’m a tiger, and I’m mated with Cyrella here, who’s another tiger, there was a good chance Gladio could’ve been a bear like his grandmother, or even something totally different.”

“Gladio the bear!” Prompto exclaims, clearly delighted by the idea. His tail gives a tentative wag. 

“Gladiolus would be an excellent bear, wouldn’t he?” Cyrella asks, amused.

“He’d be a _great_ bear,” Prompto says loyally. “The best bear.”

“He could’ve come out something different, though,” Clarus says. “Even if all of his ancestry was tiger and bear, because of genetic drift, he could’ve come out as something different from that, whether felidaetaur or canidaetaur.”

“ _Really_? Gladio could’ve been a canidaetaur like me?”

“Just like you,” Clarus says. “The bear – _ursidae_ – is suborder caniformia, not feliformia, so due to my mother, Gladio could’ve been any type of canidaetaur.”

“Wow,” Prompto marvels. “So – because we don’t know who Cor’s parents are, he _could’ve_ been my dad? If one of his parents or grandparents were canideataurs, too?”

“Oh yes,” Clarus says, nodding solemnly. “Absolutely.”

Prompto’s tail is definitely wagging now. “That’s really cool,” he says. 

“So don’t let anyone mislead you,” Cor says firmly. “We’re not all that different, no matter what type we are.”

“That’s right,” Cyrella says.

“And – and I shouldn’t listen to them when they say that I’m a dirty Niff?”

“They say - ?! That’s _bullshit_ ,” Clarus says automatically.

Prompto rears up and puts his forepaws on Clarus’ chair. “Gladio’s dad,” he says sternly, putting his chubby little fists on his waist. “ _That’s a bad word_.”

Cor hides a smile.


	6. 6

Cor ends up hosting all four kids for Prompto's fourth birthday party, which includes a long drive into semi-disputed territory – with _all_ their heads out the window, following after Prompto’s example, and thank Bahamut for the Regalia's convertible mode – to Wiz’ Chocobo Outpost, where they can pet the chocobos and help feed and groom the adults, play in a pen with a bunch of chocobo chicks, and even, under the close supervision of Wiz himself, a very pleasant and cheerful golden retriever 'taur with fur the color of most of his birds, ride a particularly docile one around the pen while Wiz holds on to the lead and supervises closely. 

They even have a Chocobo-shaped cake. 

Cor grimly sees the shape of his immediate future, and it involves far too many yellow and multi-colored feathers. 

He’d normally try to discourage this sort of Chocobo-mania thing, but the official adoption papers (pursuant to the injunction Cor obtained after his lawyers finished sweeping the floor with opposing counsel) finally came through last week, right in time to be Prompto’s official fourth birthday present. Since Cor wasn’t about to give Prompto _two_ parties right next to each other, he figured he would just give Prompto a really, really big one. 

And for Prompto, that meant Chocobos.

"This is the best birthday _ever_ ," Prompto announces, deliriously happy. "We've gotta do the same thing next time!"

Cor groans.

"There, there, boss," Monica, one of Cor's better lieutenants and a very efficient and hardy housecat breed, called a Norwood (or “Norweigian”) forest cat for reasons now lost to history, says, patting him on the shoulder. 

He glares at her. She only has cats. _Real_ cats, not baby felidaetaurs.

Monica smirks back at him with the blissful knowledge of someone who's going to be getting her boss Chocobo-themed presents for every Draconiad festival going forward, right alongside the traditional apples for a good year, and he's going to have to _thank_ her for it. 

"I appreciate your presence," Cor says in response. "Also, Gladio's stalking the chickens again. Go stop him."

Monica curses and scampers off to collect the over-zealous tiger cub.

Cor smirks. 

Then he notices that Noctis, who’s recently started learning about his royal abilities and seems to have picked up warping unusually quickly, has managed to warp himself into a tree and can’t seem to get down.

Cor sighs and heads over to help extract him.

"We're still making you pay for this, boss," Riyad, another of Cor's lieutenants that he frantically suborned for this war party once he found out that Regis and Clarus weren't coming with their usual entourage of Crownsguard, says peaceably after he’s climbed the tree and handed Noctis down to Cor, and Cor in turn has put Noctis down on the ground and seen him dash off to rejoin his friends without the slightest shred of having learned any caution from the incident. 

No surprise there, really.

Riyad’s a Persian, white and fluffy and surprisingly muscular, and with the disadvantage of having several much-younger siblings that he dotes on – making him a natural choice for assisting with childcare. He likes children, but not Chocobos, but he was smart enough to bring along one of his cadets, a very promising bobcat named Joan, and assign her the more muddy parts of Chocobo-tending in exchange for extra credits. Cor can't even complain about abuse of power: she likes mud, and even volunteered for the job. 

"I know," Cor groans. "I know."

Riyad smirks at him. "Say," he says, "you ever find out why the usual owners of said children couldn't make it? Excluding Counsel Scientia, we all know what she’s doing."

The daily updates from her latest case were currently making headline news.

Regis and Clarus, however, had no such excuse. 

"No," Cor says, and he doesn't like that. He understands the desire not to attend four-year-old appropriate parties and gets some rest instead, but they didn't give him any advance notice that they weren't coming, and there was no gleeful hints that they'd be taking a day to themselves while he suffered, which is very atypical of them. Moreover – "They've been acting off ever since Noctis' birthday a month ago, come to think of it."

Riyad frowns. “Maybe it was the Draconiad, instead?” he suggests. “It was late this year – fell right around the same time.”

“The New Year? But what about it?” Cor says doubtfully. The fall holiday held to honor Bahamut, the Draconian, the leader of the Astrals and chief protector of 'taurkind – usually one of Cor's favorites, in fact, celebrated with all sorts of harvest goods, sweet-smelling breads, and apples – was upbeat as always this year. Cor can’t imagine what could have stemmed from that to cause Regis and Clarus to act like a bunch of squirrels trying to hide a treasure trove of acorns. 

If anything, Cor would’ve expected something like that to happen after the Archead, with its celebration of all those who labor; that day, celebrated in the name of the Archean, Titan, is the day when all the great ceremonies of sport are held, but also the traditional time of year for protests and petitions. Or maybe even Ifirit's holiday, the Inferiad at midwinter, with its bonfires and candle-lightning and all the more, ah, _adult_ traditions associated with leaping over the bonfires late in the evening...

Not the _Draconiad_ , anyway. It is a pretty mild holiday, as feast-days go – there's a reading of the Prophecy, a nice dinner, exchanging a few presents, something like that. Not much happens. 

Though Regis usually goes to commune with the Crystal, and so with the sleeping Bahamut himself, right around that time. Maybe something came up from that?

“It’s a good idea, Riyad,” Cor says at last, nodding. He doesn’t know what it is that his friends are hiding, but he’ll find out. It used to be that Regis just assigned Cor a long-term mission beyond the Wall in enemy territory every time there was an awkward conversation he wanted to avoid, but nowadays he’s reluctant to separate Cor from Prompto for so long just because he doesn’t want to talk about what's bothering him. Cor fully intends on exploiting that. “I’ll confront them when we get home.”

Riyad nods.

“In the meantime,” Cor adds, pulling out the credit card Regis shoved into his hands while making some sort of half-assed explanation about why he couldn’t come along for the party, “let’s buy them some souvenirs, shall we? _Particularly_ Noctis and Gladio.”

“As irritatingly yellow as we can find, sir?”

“Try to see if you can find something that makes noise,” Cor instructs. “A nice, annoying cawing sound would be just right.”

Riyad looks contemplative for a moment. “Sir?”

“Yes?” Cor asks, because he is a good commander who cares about his subordinate’s input, or at least he does when they’re helping him corral wild kitlings masquerading as children.

“Have you ever heard of ‘Kenny the Crow’? My youngest sister loves it.”

Cor has not heard of Kenny the Crow and, once Riyad introduces him to some videos on his phone, he determines very quickly that he wishes that he had _never_ heard of Kenny the Crow.

Naturally, he has Riyad show the children immediately. 

Prompto, bless his devoted and obsessive little hearts, is disinterested in anything not Chocobo-shaped, but Noctis and Gladio and even, amusingly enough, Ignis are all enraptured, so naturally there is nothing for it but to load them up with all the irritating memorabilia for it that Cor can find nearby.

“You’re a very evil man, sir,” Monica says admiringly. 

“I like to consider it a mastery of strategy,” Cor says cheerfully, watching Gladio squeeze his newfound rubber Kenny Crow and beam every time it bursts out with some unholy childhood jingle in response. “You know, we should buy extra in case the noise-maker on that one mysteriously ‘breaks’.”

“Wouldn’t want to deal with sad kittens if that happens,” Riyad agrees. 

“You guys do realize that he’s your king, right?” Joan pipes up, sounding curious. “That isn’t going to stop you?”

“As a king, I have nothing but the highest respect for Regis,” Cor informs her. “As a friend, however, it is my duty to drive him absolutely mad. Besides, he’s the one who got Prompto that feathered headdress - you know the one, with all the bells?”

“Oh, in _that_ case, sir, might I suggest a Kenny Crow Sings Classic Children’s Songs collection?”

“You may indeed...”

Sure, they suffer on the ride back to Insomnia, but it's nothing compared to how much future suffering is in store for the next person to take the Regalia out on a drive (probably Regis). 

Except –

Regis doesn’t complain.

Which, really, ruins the fun of it all.

He’s also still avoiding Cor, as is Clarus, and it’s definitely escalated beyond “something came up and he got busy” into actual _avoidance_. 

Clearly, the time has come for sterner measures.

Cor makes a plan and executes it. He didn't get to be Marshal of the Crownsguard for his pretty face, after all.

“Aulea, I’m not sure now is the best time to –” Regis is saying when he walks in, only to freeze when he sees Cor in his office instead of his wife. “...ah.”

“Your Majesty,” Cor says politely.

“Did Aulea even send me that message?” Regis asks.

“Of course she did,” Cor says. “It had all the secret signs on it we devised to make sure you wouldn’t be lured into an ambush, didn’t it?”

“Key words – that _we_ designed,” Regis says dryly. “Yes, it did, but I’m sure you can forge them.”

“Of course I can,” Cor says, because he can. “As it happens, I didn’t. She invited you on my behalf.”

“How did you convince her to participate in that?”

“Same way I convinced Cyrella to,” Cor tells him.

“Cyrella – oh, _Clarus_ –”

The warning comes too late, as Clarus walks through the door himself next, nearly running into Regis’ hindquarters as he does. “Regis,” he says. “What in the world are you – oh, no, what’s Cor doing here?”

“Now that’s just rude,” Cor says. “Step inside, I’ve booked each of you for at least an hour.”

“Cyrella said she wanted to meet with me,” Clarus grumbles. “Not _you_.”

“Given that you’ve been avoiding me, I’m unsurprised by that.”

They both wince, looking away from Cor’s gaze in embarrassment and some guilt. 

_Yes_ , Cor thinks to himself, _whatever this is, they hoped to keep it from me, and that is unacceptable._

It’s _his job_ to defend the Crown, after all, and Regis and Clarus’ stupid notions about protecting him from unpleasant information can go jump off a cliff. He thought he’d broken them of that habit years ago, but apparently not.

So, yes, clearly this little intervention is necessary. Even at the cost he’s been forced to undertake to achieve it...

“But _how_ did you convince them to join in with you on this plot?” Regis demands, seizing on the pertinent question at hand. “They’re not so easily manipulated.”

Cor smiles, with teeth. 

“That," he says pleasantly, "I’m afraid we’re going to have to leave to our fourth visitor.”

“Don’t tell me it’s a lawyer!” Clarus exclaims. 

“No,” Cor says. His smile gets less and less like a smile. “It’s a therapist.”

“A _what_?”

“I informed Aulea and Cyrella that I was willing to give the newest shrink they recommended a try, but only in a group setting,” Cor says. “Preferably one in which the other individuals who were there at key moments in my childhood development were present. Namely, you two. They jumped at the chance.”

“But you _hate_ therapy.”

“Oh yes,” Cor says. “But the therapist is only scheduled to come in for a half-hour, and after that you’re all mine. And for the record, I hate being lied to more than I hate therapy."

“...you’re serious about this.”

“I signed us up for _therapy_ to get you in here,” Cor says flatly, his tail lashing. “You damn well _bet_ I’m serious.”

“Crap,” Clarus sighs.

“Oh, yes. And since you made me go to these ridiculous lengths, I fully intend to make you suffer through this just as much as I will.”

The door opens.

“Oh, look,” Cor says smoothly. “She’s right on time.”

“Can’t we just agree to talk to you?” Regis says, making a face. “Instead?”

“Too late,” Cor says. “You really should’ve just responded to my request for a meeting, your Majesty.”

* * *

“Well,” Clarus says, blinking. He feels like he’s been run over by a truck. “That – happened.”

“How did we even get on the subject of relationships?” Regis demands, looking bewilderedly at the door where the therapist had just left. “I thought she was here to help us deal with _trauma_.”

“I didn’t even know asexuality was an _option_ ,” Cor says. He looks just as taken aback as the rest of them. “That makes so much _sense_. Why didn’t anyone _tell me_ that was an option?!”

“On that note, to reiterate, I am sorry for constantly trying to pair you off, Cor,” Clarus says. “Or pressuring you, or anything.”

“No, no, it’s fine – I haven’t decided if I’m aromantic as well as asexual yet, so it’s probably still worth a shot. Though at least you can give it a rest on the mating business…”

“Yes, of course…”

“Did you hear what she said about my wife?” Regis yelps, still staring at the door. “About – I’m _not failing to pay attention_ to Aulea! I’m the King! I get busy sometimes!”

“Regis, you’re overreacting,” Clarus says soothingly. “The therapist already explained that she wasn’t accusing you of anything – she was just explaining the concept of emotional labor and how the way you tend to leave the planning of family events to Aulea could be seen as unfairly distributing, given that she also has royalty related duties as well –”

“But –!”

“Maybe we should discuss what you two have been hiding from me instead,” Cor says. He’s recovered already, quick cheetah as always, and he’s glaring at the two of them. 

Clarus and Regis share concerned glances. There was a _reason_ they didn't want to share this news with Cor – he is still young, after all, young and excitable and, in his own special way, terribly idealistic, thinking that he can change the world all on his own with nothing more than his claws and his sword and his lawsuits and, ultimately, his own strength of will. 

And this –

This will break his hearts, in just the way it had already broken theirs.

“I’m not going to let up on this,” Cor warns, and from the look in his eyes he means it. “I don’t care how you’ve justified this to yourselves; you clearly think it’s something I should know but that you think might hurt me, which is no reason at all, because if it was really a state secret that I shouldn’t know about, you would have done a better job of keeping it from me.”

“You’re not wrong,” Regis says, his voice quiet. Clarus stirs himself to protest – surely they aren’t going to just _tell_ him! – but Regis puts a hand on Clarus’ shoulder, quieting his concerns. “Merely – inaccurate.”

“How so?”

“This isn’t something you need to know as the Marshal of the Crownsguard,” Regis says. “But as a guardian to one of Noctis’ closest friends – yes, perhaps it is something you have a right to know.”

Cor frowns. “What do you mean?”

And Regis – tells him.

He tells Cor the whole damned lot of it, starting with the parts he already knows – the traditional story of the Great Prophecy: Bahamut gifting the Crystal to the Lucis Caelum line, the Kings of Lucis, but with that gift and that power a terrible price to be paid, with each of the Kings’ souls being trapped in the Crystal until the coming of the Chosen King who would rid the land of the daemon scourge; the way the Ring of the Lucii has drained each King faster and faster, robbing them of their vitality, condemning them to a single child born early each time as the sole hope for the next generation – and, at last, the new parts. 

The part Cor doesn’t know.

The fact that Bahamut revealed to Regis upon the Draconiad, which on this year fell upon Noctis' fourth birthday. 

The Revelation of Bahamut is at hand at last: the Chosen King has at last been born.

A star shone bright in the evening sky the night of Noctis’ birth, a herald that none realized the significance of – a supernova, far away, admired by astronomers and laypeople alike and inspiring Aulea to name her still-unborn child after that beautiful light in the night sky: Stella, if it was a girl, and Noctis, if a boy. 

And upon Noctis’ fourth birthday, when that birth-day fell on the same night as the Draconiad, the birth of the new year in the midst of the dying leaves of the autumn, Regis asked the Crystal how many more Kings there were to go before the Chosen King would come to them and was told –

Only one.

Noctis.

Noctis is the Chosen King, unharmed by the light of the Crystal that lashes bitterly at all who approach it, even his father. But that was not all that Bahamut said, for he reminded Regis of the worst part of his great and terrible Prophecy - that as the Chosen King, Noctis carries the most dreadful of burdens: that he shall one day fight the darkness that has possessed their land for hundreds of years, and that he shall win and free them all – 

At the cost of a life.

His own.

The life, willingly given, of the Chosen King of Lucis.

To discover that your child was born to die is a terrible thing, Clarus knows – his own son, his Gladio, is doomed to be a Shield to a King he will not be able to protect in the end, and that forthcoming tragedy already hurts him deep in his soul, and yet that is still nothing compared to the horror that Regis sees before him: the duty of his throne, the duty of his line, all come to nothing, destined to end with the death of his son. 

That's why they didn't want to tell Cor.

After all, there is nothing here that can be done by the Marshal of the Crownsguard. No army can fight the dictates of fate, as the doom of Solheim long ago showed. 

No, this information is not for the Marshal. This information is for the guardian of Prompto, Noctis’ best friend alongside Ignis and Gladio. This information is for Cor, who must now raise his child with the same knowledge that they bear, the know that Prompto, too, may be lost in the final battle, should he stay by Noctis’ side. 

Clarus doesn’t look at Cor’s face when Regis talks, preferring to keep his eyes on his friend and king – he’d rather watch the already-shattered look in Regis’ eyes than to see the shattering in Cor's. 

Regis brings his story to a close.

“I see,” Cor says after a long moment. 

“You understand, then,” Regis says heavily. “I will do what I can, of course, to give Noctis as normal a childhood as possible –”

“Hold up,” Cor says. “Are you telling me that you _don’t_ intend to fight this?”

Clarus twists to look at him.

The shattering that he feared has not yet happened: Cor’s eyes shine as bright as ever, that simmering rage of his youth and temper are still there, and his mouth is twisted in displeasure.

“What do you mean?” Regis says with a frown. “You cannot – there isn’t – this is the _Prophecy_ , Cor. There is no way of _fighting_ this.”

“Of course there is,” Cor says. “This is your _son_ , Regis! Prophecy or no Prophecy, you owe it to him to at least _try_!”

“Oh, I’d try,” Regis says, getting angry to match. “Of course I’d try! For Noctis, I’d try anything! But there’s nothing _to_ try!”

“Of _course_ there is!”

“This isn’t something you can win with a sword, Cor,” Clarus says gently, because he can see the small spark of hope growing in Regis’ eyes at Cor’s ferociousness, and the inevitable dying of that hope will only hurt his old friend more. 

“Oh, no, of course not,” Cor says, and there is a light in his eyes that Clarus does not entirely trust – but he seems so certain, so absolute. Could it be that he sees something they do not? Some hope that might be within grasping? “Not with _swords_.”

“Then – how do you intend…?”

“As Regis said, we’re dealing with a Prophecy,” Cor says briskly. “And a Prophecy must be fulfilled, but as all the oldest legends we have tell us, the _manner_ in which a Prophecy is to be fulfilled is not always static: there are many ways of interpreting the same prediction, and all of them are just as true. We know _what_ must happen – we do not know _how_ it must happen. This is not a battle of swords, Clarus, Regis – in that you are correct. This is a battle of words: of analysis, of interpretation; of evasion, of the difference between the letter and the spirit.” He grins with teeth. “In other words, this is a battle of _loopholes_.”

They both gape at him.

“This, my friends,” Cor says with relish, “is a battle for a _lawyer_.”

Clarus and Regis share a bewildered look for a moment before turning and staring at Cor for another long moment, but no, he appears entirely in earnest. 

“Cor,” Regis says after a moment. “You can’t _sue_ Bahamut.”

“ _Watch me_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And so the plot begins in earnest :)


	7. 7

"I can't believe we're doing this," Regis mutters, pacing back and forth, tail stiff behind him.

Aulea reaches out from her seat and touches his hand lightly. He turns and smiles at her, an automatic instinct, but continues pacing a second later.

Clarus is only superficially more calm, sitting on his favorite settee with Cyrella at his side, but his tail is lashing anxiously. Cyrella has not permitted herself any such obvious sign of anxiety, but her hackles are all up as if to combat an upcoming threat.

Only Cor is calm.

"Just wait," he says, not for the first time. "It's worth a shot."

"I still can't believe we're doing this," Regis growls.

The door to the inside of the Crystal chamber – the Citadel's holiest of holies, usually guarded by an array of Crownsguard but today abandoned in favor of the watchfulness of its monarch, his wife, and his two closest advisers – suddenly makes a noise, and they all tense, watching it.

The door opens.

Apollonia Scientia, ibex of the mountains of Tenebrae, the terror of the law courts, and mother of Noctis' dear friend (and likely official future advisor) Ignis Scientia, steps out, blinking as if to clear her eyes from the painful light of the Crystal.

" _Well_?" Regis demands.

"It took a while, as you warned, your Majesty," she says, "but I have established communication with Bahamut, the ever-watchful Draconian."

" _And_?!"

Scientia blinks, long and slow, and then, very abruptly, smiles. "Negotiations are going well."

Aulea, who had half-risen to her paws, abruptly collapses into her chair in a sudden rush of relief. "What does that mean?" she asks, even as Regis moves to put a hand on her shoulder, a hand she covers with her own.

"To make a long story short – Bahamut's Prophecy has always been told in the nature of a story, or of paintings or images, rather than as a series of predictions. Whilst this might be effective for the general populace, it is _not_ appropriate for the parties to a contract."

"Bahamut, War-Bringer; O Armored Warrior, Law-giver, blessed be," Cyrella murmurs, invoking the old blessing. "The Many-Scaled Dragon who guards the Apples; He of the Many Swords, Scales of War and of Peace...he _listened_ to you?"

"He may be most famous as the patron of warriors," Scientia says, with some fair bit of irony in her voice. "But as you yourself said just now, one of his other titles _is_ that of the Law-giver, patron of lawyers. When I accused him of violating the Covenant, he spoke in his own defense."

"You _accused_ the Draconian of _violating the Covenant_?! You accused _Bahamut_?!"

"Oh yes," Scientia says, her manner utterly casual, and Cor smirks at his fearless lawyer. "I requested a review of the details of the Covenant in your name and as your agent, and told him that if he refused to provide it, I would claim a breach – after all, one cannot contract with the unknowing; it's unconscionable. That's one of our foremost contractual legal principles, the importance of consent and knowing agreement. And, of course, naturally he no more wants to see the Covenant broken than we do."

"You play a dangerous game, Counsel Scientia," Regis said, sounding rather shocked.

"Some risks are worth taking, your Majesty," Scientia tells him sternly. "Regardless – communications were established, and we have worked our way through the obscurity."

"But what does it _mean_?" Aulea presses. "Is Noctis..?"

"Bahamut's own view of his Prophecy is rather dour," Scientia says with a faint scowl. "But he admits that his knowledge of the future is imperfect outside of the Prophecy itself, which of course gives rise to the question of –"

"Counsel Scientia, _please_!"

"Forgive me," Scientia says, shaking her head. "Of course you do not care about the intricacies. Very well – the specifics of the Prophecy itself are as follows: ‘The Chosen King can banish darkness from the world with the light of Providence. When darkness falls, the King of Light will appear and vanquish it for good. The Oracle will help him. He must absorb the power of his ancestors and forge covenants with the Six. Using the Ring of Lucii, he will use all the power he gained to destroy the darkness of the Accursed and purge the world of their madness. But the power comes with a terrible price.’"

“That sounds about right,” Regis says, frowning upwards at the paintings that frame his throne room and much of the internal portions of the palace. “I’ve never heard it so clearly put, but yes, that seems right – the Kings of Lucis have been given the Crystal and the Ring, so as to strengthen it with their lives until the day the King of Light comes forth to banish the darkness with the aid of the Oracle.”

“How does knowing this help, though?” Clarus asks. “If it’s more or less what we knew already.”

“Once you know the details of something, you can find a way around it,” Cor tells him.

"I think, perhaps, a list would make this clearer," Scientia says, stalking with almost feline grace over to her whiteboard, which she had insisted on being brought into the waiting chamber. "Here – the requirements of the Prophecy, when broken down, are as follows:  
___________________________________________________________  
| - Chosen King must have:                                                  |  
|      - light of Providence                                                      |  
|      - help of the Oracle                                                       |  
|      - the power of his ancestors                                          |  
|      - covenants with the Six                                                |  
|      - Ring of the Lucii                                                         |  
| - Chosen King must then:                                                  |  
|      - banish darkness using the light of Providence            |  
|      - use the power to destroy/purge the Accursed            |  
|      - pay terrible price (unknown)                                      |  
|_________________________________________________________|

"You have a real talent for taking something and breaking it down into understandable morsels, Scientia," Cyrella says approvingly. "This looks almost – straightforward."

Scientia inclines her head graciously.

"The weapons of his ancestors," Regis says, frowning. "Do you think – the royal tombs? The Royal Arms?"

"It must be that," Clarus says. "A procession throughout the lands of Lucis to collect the Royal Arms – that's practically a classic pre-war ritual, albeit one that fell out of practice when people became less religious in more recent centuries following the slumber of the Astrals..."

"Covenants with the Six,” Aulea says, tapping her lips. “That seems clear enough as well. There are rituals on how to do that – of course, they’ve been a closely held secret of the Oracle more or less from the beginning. But under the circumstances, we can reach out to Sylvia – she'll understand, surely –"

"Who – or what – is the Accursed?" Cor asks, frowning at the chart.

“ _Who_ , I think,” Regis says. “There’s usually a shadowy figure in all the ancient murals that depict the Prophecy - usually heavily implied to be involved with the StarScourge somehow.”

“Still doesn’t answer who it is.”

"Excellent point, Leonis," Scientia says. "We have no idea regarding who the Accursed is, only that he – or she or they, I suppose, as the Prophecy doesn't provide any hints – must be defeated and their madness 'purged' from this world. However, I believe that if we begin to make progress on any of the other points, it is likely that the Accursed will seek to interfere, and thereby their identity uncovered."

“But the terrible price –” Aulea begins. Regis' hand tightens on her shoulder: he had been the one Bahamut had informed that the price would be Noctis' life.

“I have discussed that with Bahamut as well,” Scientia says. “While he did confirm that the price meant to be paid was that of life of the King, willingly sacrificed -"

Aulea inhales sharply. Regis' head falls.

"- I pointed out that under the very laws he gave to us, a child cannot be held accountable to pay a price incurred with the permission of his guardians, but rather that price is paid by the guardians instead.”

They all sit up a little straighter at that, even Regis' head rising to fix Scientia with an intense look.

“So if we accomplish all of the requirements of the Prophecy before Noctis reaches the age of maturity…?” Regis asked.

“Then, by our law, the price will fall on our heads,” Scientia confirms. “Or rather, on yours, your Majesties.”

“Better on ours than on Noctis,” Aulea says firmly. Regis, by her side, is practically glowing with relief. “Very well, let us review: the Ring we have, the Accursed we don’t know, the Royal Arms we can obtain, covenants with the Six are straightforward, if likely to be difficult…”

"What about the light of Providence?" Regis asks.

Scientia snorts a little, scratching idly at the floor with a hoof – the first hint of emotion beyond implacable calm she has displayed so far. “Nonsense, of course.”

They all turn to stare at her.

“I briefly attended the seminary before deciding to become a lawyer,” Scientia says, ignoring the way everybody’s eyebrows go up at that.

“I – really can’t see you as a priest or rabbi,” Cor says, making a face. “No offense meant.”

“Is going from a priest to a lawyer the equivalent of switching sides?” Cyrella muses.

Scientia glares at them. “I was _trying_ to make a point,” she says waspishly. “In the seminary, I studied any number of things, but not least of which include ancient pre-Solheim religious texts, or what we have left of them.”

“So?”

“ _So_ , your Majesty, one cannot simply _recite words_ in a contract, where every single comma and period are examined for meaning! Words cannot simply be used willy-nilly. It's a canon of contractual interpretation: words used in a contract must be given their meaning. And in particular, the term _providence_ has a _very specific_ meaning.”

“It does?” Aulea says, frowning.

“It does,” Scientia says dryly. “Specifically, however, _providence_ means simply ‘the will of God’ – or, in our case, I suspect it would be the will of Bahamut, as the giver of the Prophecy to ‘taurkind.”

"So what does that mean?" Regis says, frowning.

"Shoddy draftsmanship, that's what it means," Scientia says. "I pressed Bahamut on the subject and extracted some additional clarity as to his view on the subject and I personally interpret the phrase as referring to the light of the Crystal – specifically, to the light of Bahamut's Gift, and the accompanying wisdom – which must, to quote Bahamut, 'be absorbed from within'."

"Which means what?" Aulea asks sharply. "Absorbed from within – does he have to go _inside_ the Crystal?"

"It's an option," Scientia says, wrinkling her nose. "Bahamut even suggested it as an option, but of course I refused.”

“Good,” Aulea says firmly, then pauses. “You - _refused_?”

“My dear, all contracts are interpreted against their drafters,” Scientia says briskly. “It's the only way to be fair about such things. As a result, because the Prophecy does not specify _how_ the light is to be absorbed, we are therefore free to fulfill the condition by whatever means we see fit. I have interpreted the phrase 'within' to refer to the chamber in which the Crystal is located and offered Bahamut a counter-proposal that Noctis will absorb the light incrementally over time.”

"So, what, he has to sun himself in the Crystal chamber for an hour once a week?" Cor asks. "That seems – unusually reasonable."

"Bahamut agreed that it would be possible if the Oracle is present to help ease the burden of the light," Scientia says. "Without the Oracle, however, it would be significantly more difficult."

"I don't think getting the Oracle present is possible, though," Aulea says, tapping her fingers anxiously before noticing she was doing it and putting her hand firmly down beside her. "Sylvia has always refused to come join us in Insomnia – you know that Tenebrae is all but conquered Niflheim territory now, all of it but Sylvia's home itself, but they permit her to influence how Tenebrae at large is governed. She's always been afraid that if she left, they would immediately retaliate against her people – I don't think that's changed."

"But surely – for the _Prophecy_ –" Cyrella starts, but Regis and Clarus are already shaking their heads.

"Even if Sylvia were willing to come, Niflheim would declare war immediately, no matter how unprepared they were," Clarus says. "And prepared or not – if and when they come in full force, we will likely lose. We'll make them pay for it in blood, of course, but we'll lose."

"Well, who's the next one?" Cor asks.

"What?"

"Who's been marked as the next Oracle?" Cor repeats. "Her daughter, yes? Lunafreya? If Sylvia were to die today, the burden would fall on Lunafreya, is that right?"

"What are you suggesting, Cor?"

"The power of the Oracle runs through the bloodline," Cor points out. "The Kings of Lucis have the Ring of the Lucii that they must prove themselves to, but the Oracle is a position that you are simply marked for at birth – and there's been more than one Oracle before, historically, or at least there was during the reign of the Mystic..."

"Those were twins," Clarus objects, but he looks thoughtful.

"I don't see why we can't at least _propose_ the idea of the younger Oracle serving as Noctis' aid to Bahamut," Scientia says. "They are more of an age, anyway, so it will be less unusual."

"I heard that in times of stress, more than one Oracle could be raised, albeit at some cost to the power of the existing Oracle," Cyrella says, glancing at Aulea. "But – I think Sylvia might agree to give up some portion of her power and her daughter's, if it's for the Prophecy." She makes a face. "Though I hate to ask her to send her daughter here, so far away from her mother – Lunafreya is so young!"

"Only a handful of years older than Noctis," Clarus murmurs, a reminder of why they're there.

"Better young and safe here," Regis says, rubbing his face. "If this Accursed gets wind of the fact that Noctis is the Chosen King, he might go after Sylvia's family, and damn be the official peace terms. They've always been subject to the whim of Niflheim."

"It's worth proposing," Aulea says, at last. Regis is the king, and they all defer to him, but there's steel in Aulea's voice and a hardness in her eyes that reminds them all that their usually gentle Queen has more than a touch of the warrior as well. In matters relating to Noctis, Regis has developed a habit of deferring to her – he falls easily into that habit now, nodding in confirmation when they glance at him. "Good; if Bahamut consents, then we are agreed. I will go and make the petition to her in person."

"Aulea!" Regis exclaims. He's not the only one.

She holds up a hand. "We are asking Sylvia to give us her _child_ ," Aulea says. "Making sure she understands exactly why is the least we can do."

"That doesn't mean you have to be the one to go," Clarus objects. "I could –"

"Your absence is too notable. I will take Cor."

Cor inclines his head, not arguing.

" _My_ absence is too notable?!" Clarus growls. "You're the _Queen_ –"

"And have been known to retire from public view when I fall ill, or when Noctis does," Aulea says sternly. "We will spread word that I am unwell –"

"The trip to Tenebrae is long," Cor says mildly. "Spreading word of illness and not appearing for such a long time, even if only to quash the populace’s fears, will cause people to worry."

Aulea turns to look at him and raises an eyebrow. She knows him well enough to know that he’s not objecting to her overall idea, merely critiquing it. "You have a better suggestion?"

"Regis is weakened by the Ring, but is still far from infirm," Cor says with a shrug. "Noctis is already four. It's a good age to try for more, if you were so inclined."

Aulea flushes. "You're suggesting that we pass it off as a premature heat?"

"You're a bit old for the adolescent version, and a bit young for the aged version, but some types of medication can sometimes trigger heats at unexpected moments," Scientia says thoughtfully. "If we start up the rumor of illness, then a few weeks later someone starts strongly hinting that it's _not_ an illness –"

"The kingdom does _not_ need to know so much about our sex life," Regis grumbles, but he's already given in – it's not like the tabloids aren't filled with lurid speculation every spring _anyway_. He takes his wife's hand and presses his lips to her palm. "Be careful, my dearest."

"Cor will take good care of me."

"He'd _better_."

Cor, who wasn't involved in this discussion and didn't delude himself into thinking joining in would be welcome, edges over to Clarus. "I haven't had any missions lasting more than a month in three years," he says. "This one will inevitably be so, though of course I'll try to hurry it up. You will take Prompto for the duration?"

"Of course."

"Good," Cor says, and smiles. "And you can start digging up the archives in search of the location of the lost tombs while I'm gone."

Clarus grumbles.

"Don’t worry. Scientia can help."

Clarus looks horrified at the thought.

* * *

Aulea likes to think of herself as a strong, determined, and principled woman, intent on doing the right thing no matter the cost, but even she's a little apprehensive at the thought of sneaking across the border – across most of the continent, to be honest – into Tenebrae, right on the borders of Niflheim as it is. Even if she does her best not to show any of that apprehension to her husband.

She is a lioness, after all. She has her pride.

...she should mention that one to Scientia. The other woman's fondness for puns is something of a surprise, given her otherwise stern demeanor, but it is an extremely enjoyable one, given Scientia's evident pleasure every time she hears one, no matter how puerile.

Aulea considers Scientia a most delightful addition to their little group of concerned Citadel parents. Even if their attempts to call her by her given name – Apollonia, of all things, what had her parents been _thinking_? – failed miserably, to Scientia's amusement and assurances that calling her Scientia was perfectly acceptable, and indeed even preferred.

Mostly because Cyrella's accent kept making it come out as "Apple-on-eia", which was particularly funny.

_You're stalling, Aulea._

Aulea sighs and heads out with her pack slung over her back to meet with Cor. She's always liked him, too, ever since they met, though secretly she misses the spontaneous if angry ball of fluff he used to be – he's grown into caution and stoicism, which is understandable given the terrible tragedies he's faced in his short life, but she misses his smiles. Even if they did always have a touch more fang than they should.

Prompto's done some work in getting those smiles back, though, she reflects, and smiles when she sees Cor graciously receiving a small Chocobo doll from his teary-eyed puppy, putting it into his pocket and placing his hand on it – clearly promising to keep both the doll and himself safe.

Aulea has already said her goodbyes to Noctis. She couldn't bear to leave it until now; she's never left him along for this long before.

Cor comes to her.

"How shall we go?" she asks, knowing from the expression on his face that he's already walling off all softer emotions that might interfere with his mission. "A car to the border, of course – and then a ferry from Galdin Quay to Altissia, and then – do you think we can get the train –"

"Not quite the route I was thinking," Cor says.

"Galdin is both free and Lucian," she says, frowning at him. "And getting to Cape Caem to take the boat from there would be far more time-consuming."

"Oh, yes, it would be," Cor says agreeably. “That wasn’t my plan either.”

"...then what _is_ your plan?"

The plan, as it turns out, involves going the _wrong way_ by doubling back to Insomnia Port and from there smuggling themselves onboard a freighter bound for the islands of Galadh.

Specifically, the Galadh islands which lie, as any map will show, to the _north-west_ of Lucis, rather than the _south-east_ where Tenebrae is.

"I assume you have a good plan," Aulea says grumpily. Cor has had her dye her lovely tawny fur a frankly awful tabby pattern – she has nothing against the usual tabby, but this is _not_ attractive – that somehow, when combined with a grey shawl, does actually effectively disguise her. No one has so much as batted an eyelash at her this entire journey.

"Don't I always?"

"One that makes sense," she clarifies.

Cor just looks smug. All _he_ had to do was disguise a handful of his spots – the spotted cats, leopards and bobcats and jaguars and margays and cheetahs, all look alike to the unfamiliar eye, nothing like the eye-catching lion, and Cor knew better than most how to highlight the typical traits of a spotted housecat.

Aulea lets him get away with his smug silence and his secrets, both because she trusts him and because stewing over Cor being as stubborn as a rhino's hindquarters is a good distraction from missing Noctis.

It's not until a little later, when the freighter makes a highly unusual turn, that she realizes that this ship's destination is definitely _not_ Galadh, even though that was what was clearly listed on the ship's manifest and papers.

Some conversation with fellow passengers confirms that this ship is going nowhere near Galadh.

No, this ship is aimed for –

Aulea goes and finds Cor on a lonesome top deck.

"Cor," she says calmly when she finds him. "Have you lost your _mind_?"

"No, your Majesty."

"Stop that. We're friends, and you only call me that when you're acting like a smart-ass."

Cor smirks.

"Cor, this freighter is heading towards _Niflheim_."

"Yes," Cor says.

" _Why_ are we going to _Niflheim_?!"

"Because nobody watches the trains that run to Tenebrae from Niflheim," he says as if it's the most obvious thing in the world. "They only watch the ones coming in from Accordo."

Aulea opens her mouth to shout at him – the Queen of Lucis! In _Niflheim_! The potential for ransom _alone_..! – before she realizes that he must have already considered all of these factors, and decided to go this way regardless.

She sighs. "You're very trusting in our disguises."

"Your image hasn't been displayed all that much," Cor says with a shrug. "Particularly in Niflheim. And besides, in the last few years, Niflheim has started to rely too heavily on its MT soldiers as guards – they're frankly awful at pattern recognition. We'll be fine. Besides, this way is faster."

"It is?"

"Not by much," he concedes. "A week or so at most. But this way we skip all the lines at customs, and that's not nothing."

Aulea snorts. "You still bear a grudge, don't you?

"The joy I felt when Regis gave me the ability to launch unscheduled inspections of all customs checkpoints was indescribable," he says dryly. "But go on, ask me how I really feel."

Aulea laughs. “I don’t see what’s such a big deal about it. We did pass those laws to make them better, didn't we?”

Cor just raises an eyebrow.

Aulea shakes her head and resigns herself to a sea voyage.

A sea voyage, it turns out, that they are expected to _work_ on as payment for passage.

If she didn't love Cor so much, she'd _strangle_ him.

* * *

The children are watching them again.

It's a little unnerving, in Clarus' opinion. It isn't as though the children don't have other options with what they could be doing with their time: they could go watch the Crownsguard train, play in their rooms, go to the joint playground and find other children, or even watch television.

But no, they're down here with the adults in the archives, dragging much-beloved plush toys and plopping themselves down on the dusty old couches. They're still playing – Clarus recently bought Gladio a hand-held video game player, and the other children are still entranced by it, with occasional breaks to run around, play-act conversations between their plushes (they enjoy playing house, with all four plushies being equal members of the household that need to negotiate their respective, if unrealistic, chores at excessive length), or listening to Ignis read excessively advanced books to them – but they're also _there_. And _watching_.

"Ignis tells me that they believe we're searching the archives for something to bring Cor and Aulea home safely," Scientia murmurs to Clarus in an undertone. "They're trying to support us as best they can, while still being unclear as to what it is we're looking for."

Clarus grunts in response, his hearts melting a little. Such lovely children – Noctis and Prompto are the most affected, naturally, with their primary caretakers gone, but Gladio misses his honorary aunt and uncle, and even Ignis with all of his tiny kid dignity is deeply devoted to the missing adults. He suspects Scientia is right: Gladio's mysterious rededication to mastering reading at a higher level is thereby explained as a desire to assist with the search, and Ignis has brought books that he thought might be helpful over several times. Even Noctis and Prompto have been focusing a lot more on reading, albeit from the childrens' section at their reading level.

Adorable, and an excellent sign of their future character.

Of course, it helps that the archive search itself isn't nearly as bad as Clarus initially feared it would be.

Oh, Scientia is just as effortlessly terrifying as always, and Clarus is constantly worried that he'll slip up and reveal something that she'll use to hammer the government with in the courts, she’s ruthless like that, but she also made the search much easier by recruiting a positive fleet of legal interns and setting them on the archives with remarkably vague instructions that nevertheless managed to produce accurate results.

Apparently, having the lawyer in charge of a case demand that people find them _something_ , while also insisting that no one needs to know exactly the reason for the search, is quite normal.

Clarus has heard some of the interns theorize that it has something to do with a budding lawsuit relating to the treatment of dead bodies as pursuant to an individual family’s specific traditions, and he damn well hopes not. Personally, he hopes that his body will be consigned to the flames in the Infernian's care, in his divinely mandated role as psychopomp, and his ashes scattered in the forests as part of the rite of renewal held each year on the solemn eve of the Fulgariad's spring solstice.

You know, like a _normal person_.

No point worrying about possible lawsuits now, though. They have a mission to accomplish.

They've found six of the tombs so far – three they were able to identify relatively easily, but they've gotten much more obscure since then.

Why in the world anyone would stick their tomb _behind a waterfall_ is just beyond Clarus. He was never overly fond of the idea of tombs, anyway – too much clutter – but the Kings of Lucis have always been a different sort.

He wonders what the Oracles do – he hasn't seen reference to it anywhere.

"Uncle Clarus?" Prompto's familiar voice pipes up from beside the table, tugging lightly at Clarus' shirt. He's wearing the little wristband that Clarus recommended to Cor as an alternative to explaining the barcode tattoo to everyone who saw it, though Cor took the firm position that he would not permit the tattoo to become a symbol of shame for Prompto. Luckily, the puppy loves the glittery rainbow band. "I got another book for you."

"Thank you," Clarus says politely, overwhelmed again by the sheer cuteness of the children.

The book Prompto gives him is related to cosmology, so at least the children are on the right track. Since all four children are watching him intently, Clarus makes a big show out of opening the book and flipping through the pages.

There’s nothing in the book about the tombs, of course, but there _is_ a section that suggests that the Infernian’s corpse was laid to rest under the Rock of Ravatogh in the same way the Glacian’s resides in the Ghorovas Rift. Since they’ll need covenants with the Astrals, presumably including the dead ones, that’s actually quite helpful information, assuming they can confirm it in something other than a children’s book.

“This is an excellent find; thank you. It is _extremely_ helpful,” he praises Prompto, whose tail starts wagging like crazy at once. Even Gladio and Noctis sit up straighter and beam, arching their backs in pleasure, and Ignis even makes a happy little hop, landing clop-clop on the tiled floor – and then blushing at his uncharacteristic exuberance, of course, but recovering once none of his friends appear to have noticed.

 _Such_ adorable children.

"We helped?" Prompto asks, rearing up a little to put hands and paws both on Clarus' leg. "Cor and Auntie Aulea can come home now?"

Clarus' mirth fades. Scientia warned him, of course, not even an hour before, but he hadn't expected to be just flat-out _asked_ about it like that.

"Now, listen –" he starts, wondering how exactly he can hedge his response to be accurate (no, this is unrelated) and not break their little hearts (yes, you've done so well that they'll be back in time for dinner). It doesn't seem entirely possible. "About that –"

His phone rings. Regis' ringtone.

"Sorry, Prompto, I have to take this," Clarus tells him, deeply relieved. "It's Regis."

Prompto nods and trots back over to his friends. "It's Noct's daddy," he announces to them. "He's gonna tell Gladio's daddy that my Cor an' Noct's mom are back."

Clarus winces, but answers the phone.

"Tell me you have good news, your Majesty," he says tersely.

"Is it Scientia or the children that are ganging up on you this time?" Regis asks, far too amused for Clarus' liking.

"The children," Clarus says, glancing over to where the quartet is so very obviously eavesdropping. "Do you at least have an updated ETA?"

Cor's last message was nearly two weeks old, sent from Tenebrae – a terse message that their mission had met with success and an indication that they shouldn't expect any more messages until they were closer to home.

"ETA?" Noctis whispers, albeit loudly enough that Clarus can hear him.

"It means ‘estimated time of arrival’," Gladio says immediately. Clarus has clearly taught the boy too well. "Means 'when's something gonna get here'."

Clarus cuts off the impending groan, but perhaps not quickly enough.

"An ETA, hmm," Regis says thoughtfully. He sounds like he's suppressing laughter, not entirely successfully. Clarus definitely didn't cut off that groan in time. "Yes, I can get you one of those."

"You _can_? You've gotten word from Cor and Aulea?"

"Oh, yes."

"What did they have to say for themselves, then?" Clarus demand.

"Well," Regis says. "Why don't you ask them yourself?"

Clarus blinks. "They're _here_?!"

That is at least five days faster than his best estimate.

"They're back!" Noctis exclaims.

Prompto howls victoriously and dashes off towards the stairs, quickly followed by the skittering of paws and hooves of the other three.

"Was that the children?" Regis asks, far too innocently.

"They're your problem now," Clarus tells his oldest friend, not without some glee. "Has Cor given his report yet?"

"Not yet. Come to the throne room – we're just waiting for you."

"You wanted some time with Aulea before calling, didn't you."

"Unfortunately, no. Cor insisted I call you first," Regis grumbles. "Apparently, we can have time _later_. Now come on, you old fleabag – I'll call Cyrella as well. Maybe we can sic the kids on Cor for tonight."

Clarus hangs up on Regis, rolling his eyes. Chances are that Cor will go straight to sleep, and _Clarus_ will end up with them, and Regis knows it. "Scientia –" he starts.

"Ignis has permission to stay over at whoever's house it is this evening, just text me whose it is when you decide," she says, not moving from her research desk. Clarus feels dismissed, and reminds himself that as the first minister of the kingdom, a mere lawyer, no matter how formidable, can't just tell him to buzz off.

No matter if that’s what it sounds like.

Not that Scientia is a 'mere' anything, of course…

"Excellent," he says instead. "We'll return your son...er, at some point."

She waves him off, and Clarus goes.

Cor has a happily barking Prompto in his arms, chattering about what sounds like their exploits in the library at a hundred miles a minute, while Gladio and Ignis are leaping around watching Noctis simultaneously attempt to embrace his mother and hide behind her in order to better gawk at the young girl standing by her side, alone but for the familiar figure of the Oracle's messenger spirit that stands by the doorway.

Lunafreya Nox Fleuret, Clarus assumes. She's a white-tailed deer, graceful and elegant - not quite as overtly tough as Sylvia's elk, but still clearly strong and centered. The brother is also an elk, Clarus recalls, but the father is a buck of a similar breed to Lunafreya, if perhaps not exactly the same one.

She's only ten years old – a little less than three years older than his Gladio, and only five older than Noctis. Clarus can't even imagine what Sylvia must have felt, agreeing to send her beloved daughter away, knowing that she would see her again only rarely in the years to come. They have phones, even classified ones, now that Cor has made his delivery. But it isn't the same, of course.

They're all so _young_.

Far too young for the burden that has been placed on them.

"I thank you for welcoming me to your kingdom, King Regis," Lunafreya says, her voice solemn and clear as a bell. "I am indebted to you for your hospitality."

"It is we who are in your debt, princess," Regis replies, the warmth in his voice infusing the formal words with sincerity. "Your presence enriches our court, and at no small cost to you."

"I count the cost as nothing," Lunafreya responds, her hands clasped together. She seems much older than her young age, almost ageless in her serenity. "I will miss the company of my mother and brother, it is true. But I have my faithful Gentiana with me –"

She inclines her head at the Messenger, who is some sort of horse breed. "And, moreover, I am proud to do my duty."

Regis nods, equally solemn. "We will do what we can to ensure that you speak with your family often, and to ensure your happiness while you are here. We know well what dangers you have had to face upon your journey here."

Here, for the first time, Lunafreya's timeless composure cracks a bit and her cheeks turn just the slightest bit pink. "Oh," she says, and sneaks a glance through her eyelashes at where Cor and Aulea are standing. "It wasn't that bad."

Years of experience at politically fraught Council meetings permit Clarus to maintain a straight face, even when his years of experience as a good friend of Cor Leonis enable him to see the well-hidden expression of suffering on the man's face.

He really wants to laugh, though. Poor Cor – doomed to be the object of the crushes of little girls.

Even Gentiana, who as a messenger is a spirit devoted to the Oracle rather than a living 'taur, appears to be hiding a smile.

"I am pleased to hear that," Regis says solemnly, though his eyes are dancing. "Enter and be welcome always, Lady Lunafreya."

She bows her head. "Please, your Majesty – my friends call me Luna."

And she smiles.

With that smile, the timeless princess is gone, and in her place is the charming young girl again.

"Mom," Noctis hisses, tugging on his mother's sleeve. "Does that mean she's gonna stay?"

"Yes, Noctis," Aulea says indulgently. "That means she is staying with us."

"Good," Noctis says firmly. "Because she's the _prettiest_."

"I thought you said _I_ was the prettiest, Noct," Prompto says over Cor's shoulder.

"You're _both_ the prettiest!" Noctis declares. "I'm gonna marry _both_ of you!"

Clarus has the satisfaction that, in the moment before his composure breaks and he starts laughing, Regis cracks up first.


	8. 8

"Cor, I'm coming to your house, and I'm crashing in your box," Aulea says, trailing listlessly into the parlor room, closely followed by a tired-looking Regis.

Cor wordlessly hands his Queen a hot cup of tea from the tray he’d prepared.

"I'm not sure this will do the trick," she says.

Then she takes a sip.

"Nevermind," she gasps, voice made raspy from the sheer amount of alcohol he's added to it. "This'll do."

"Can I have one of those?" Regis asks, rubbing his eyes. 

Cor hands him one as well. "Be careful," he warns.

"You didn't warn Aulea," Regis points out, and takes a large gulp.

He promptly keels over.

"That's because _Aulea_ can handle her liquor," Cor says to his King's now-twitching form without the slightest bit of pity. “Unlike some.”

Aulea snorts.

"Clarus and Cyrella will be here soon," she says. "And Scientia, too. The children are all watching a movie upstairs."

Cor nods. 

The door opens and Scientia enters, then pauses and surveys the room. "Cor," she says calmly. "If you've committed murder, please let me know right away so that I can obtain a criminal lawyer for your defense. We don't have anyone currently up to date."

"He's fine," Cor says dismissively. "Just being a drama queen. Would you like a tea? It's spiked."

"Yes, please," she says. "Don’t you mean drama king?”

Cor rolls his eyes at her.

“At any rate,” Scientia says briskly. “I'm glad I didn't walk into a case of _Reggie_ cide."

"My favorite pun," Aulea says with a smile.

Clarus and Cyrella enter then. "Oh, good," Clarus says, seeing Regis sprawled out on the ground. "There's liquor."

"One day I'm going to be actually poisoned and you'll all be sorry," Regis grumbles, but doesn’t actually bother getting up. 

Aulea reaches out a paw and puts it in the center of his belly, kneading it a little. "You big baby," she coos. "Would you like some milk?"

He laughs and finally sits up. They all arrange themselves on the lounging couches, each one with a tea in hand (Regis' swapped out for one watered down with extra tea, because he’s weak and proud of it).

"So," Regis says after a few moments. "How go the negotiations with Bahamut?"

"With difficulty, since I can only tolerate the light of the Crystal for a limited amount of time before having to call for a break," Scientia says, scowling. She overstayed it once, early on, but three days of difficulty seeing was enough for her and she now adheres religiously to the schedule they'd created. "But we're making progress. He's accepted Luna as an adequate Oracle to assist with the process, but he's insisting on 'judging' Noctis – which, to be frank, I don't think he should be in any position to do. _He's_ the one with the damned Prophecy, after all."

"Indeed," Aulea says, shaking her head. "Deity or not...That being said, some form of judgment _is_ moderately traditional – the Ring has a similar judging period, doesn't it, dear?"

"It does, the first time you put it on," Regis agrees. "But there is rather a benefit to having the right blood, in that case; we _are_ being judged by our own ancestors, the ancient Kings and Queens of Lucis, and perhaps unsurprisingly they’re rather biased in our favor."

"It’s not just the Ring that’s biased," Cor puts in. "Gilgamesh, at the Tempering Grounds, was extremely put out that I wasn't an Amicitia. My point that a ‘taur can have more than one Shield was not accepted with significant grace."

"Very undemocratic," Cyrella says. "Not to mention rude – I assume he's expecting my Gladio, one day, and by the Leviathan's watery gullet, he will meet _me_ first."

"Gladio will grow up eventually, dear, you know that," Clarus points out mildly, not actually disagreeing.

"I do know that. Indeed, the moment I determine that's happened, he can consider following in Cor's pawprints and going out to fight some maniacal sword-collecting spirit, but it’s not happening even a single day earlier than that."

"I'm more concerned about the status in Tenebrae," Regis says, hastily changing the subject even as he tries - badly - to hide a smile. "Sylvia is reporting an increased Niflheim presence – still keeping a distance, mind you, but more spies than ever before. Do you think they've seen through the deception in regards to Luna?"

"You mean the remarkable coincidence of Lady Lunafreya Nox Fleuret being shipped off to some unnamed boarding school at the same time that our court acquires the young Luna Scientia, a distant cousin of our own Scientia –"

"By virtue of me being the only ungulaetaur involved the present conspiracy," Scientia interjects dryly.

"Yes, and thank you for that, Scientia."

"I take your point, Clarus," Regis says. "My concern is whether we are adequately keeping her safe here."

"Thus far, yes," Cor says. "I've worked with the intelligence divisions – there aren't more attempts to get into the Citadel than usual, as would be the case if she were being targeted. I think Niflheim is inclined to simply accept this as a fait accompli – I've sent some feelers into Niflheim, and they've already started floating some rumors that you're keeping her hostage."

"An attempt to turn Tenebrae's populace against us," Cyrella observes. "Clever."

"As long as they see it as in their best interests that she be here, and safe, I am willing to endure it," Regis says. "Is that the only significant effect she's been having on the court?"

"Unless you consider your son's decision that girls are infinitely more awesome than boys and that we should address him as 'Stella' for three weeks significant, no, no effects," Aulea says, smiling a little. "I thought it was rather charming."

"Would've been nice to have another Queen," Cor says. "Or a non-binary ruler, the way the Just was."

"I wonder if that would excuse Noctis from the whole 'King of Light' Prophecy business. It _is_ a rather gendered Prophecy..." Scientia muses.

"He's returned to being a boy now," Aulea says, chuckling. "Nice try, all of you."

"The archive research is going better, though," Cyrella says. She joined Scientia's crusade – unwillingly at first, since she'd never much liked school, but with increasing eagerness as she learned how enjoyable non-directed academic research could be. "We've located even more of the tombs –"

"But if we don't have the covenants, how will that help –" Aulea starts.

The door creaks.

They all turn to look.

"We're sorry for disturbing you," Luna says apologetically. 

"No, we're not," Gladio says. 

"We're really not," Prompto says, but, like Luna, he sounds apologetic about it.

It's the whole group of them – Noctis and Prompto and Gladio and Ignis and Luna. 

"Is something wrong with the movie?" Aulea asks. 

"No," Ignis says. "I mean, that is – we stopped watching it."

"We wanted to talk to you," Noctis says. He was holding Luna's hand, but he releases it, stepping forward to take the lead. "We know you've been keeping something from us – something _important_. Something that relates to us. Me and Luna, anyway."

"Not that we're _not_ involved," Gladio says fiercely. "We're sticking with Noct, all the way."

"Regardless of whatever danger we may incur as a result," Ignis adds.

Prompto nods, puffing himself up as fiercely as he can.

"We understand that you feel as though you are protecting us by not sharing this information," Luna says. "But I assure you, despite our youth, we are as eager and willing to do our duty as you. If it relates to our lives, we would be happier to know so that we may use that knowledge to guide our actions, rather than rely on the caprices of fate."

"We wanna help," Prompto says stubbornly. "And we can't help if we don't know what's going on. All we know is that it's got something to do with the Astrals –"

"– and the tombs of the Kings and Queens of Lucis –" Gladio adds.

"– and the light of the Crystal –" Ignis adds.

"– the power of the Oracle –" Luna chimes in.

"– and me," Noctis says, his small face serious beyond his years. Despite his tender age, there is something of the future king he will grow to be in there, and more than a little of the regal dignity of his parents. "It has something to do with me, doesn't it."

He doesn't pronounce it as a question, but Regis responds nevertheless.

"Yes, my son," he says. "It does."

"Regis," Aulea murmurs, an objection.

"No, Aulea. They know enough to be worried, but not enough to be assured that steps are being taken to resolve the issue," Regis says firmly. "We must tell them."

He turns to Noctis. "And you, my boy – all of you – you will accept that we will not tell you all the details, many of which are too complex for you to understand at your present age. But we will explain what is happening, and your role in it, and what can you will be able to do."

Noctis nods solemnly.

"Can we have some tea first?" Prompto asks, breaking the serious mood entirely. "It smells funny."

"It's grown-up tea," Cor says, even as all the other adults laugh. "You can't have it until you're older. Your grown-up tastebuds haven't grown in yet."

"Oh," Prompto says. "What about Luna, then? She's ancient."

"I'm _ten_!" she yelps, the poised lady disappearing under the affront of a child.

"Yeah," he says, blinking at her. "Like I said. Ancient."

"I think we'd _better_ tell them the whole story," Cyrella cackles. "Just to stop this conversation before someone gets punched."

"I would appreciate having Ignis' assistance in the research," Scientia says, smiling proudly at her son, who straightens his back and beams. "His mind is exceedingly well-organized."

Ignis is positively glowing from the praise from his habitually stern mother. 

"Come here, baby," Aulea says, patting her couch, and with that the last vestiges of maturity fade away as the children all run forward to curl up on the couches next to their respective parents – Luna going to Scientia, with whom she presently lives, although in deference to her maturity she pulls over her own couch instead of curling up by Scientia's belly. She does put the couches close enough that it is scarcely different. 

Clearly, Scientia’s little fake adoption is going well.

Cor runs his fingers through Prompto's soft fur and smiles down at him. Prompto giggles happily and nuzzles his head against Cor's waist. 

Gladio snuggles between his two parents, looking pleased as punch, while Noctis settles down by his mother and looks expectantly at his father.

"Very well," Regis says. "Let us begin at the beginning – do you recall the bedtime stories I have told you, about the war of the Astrals and the coming of the Starscourge, of Bahamut's Gift of the Crystal and the Ring and the power of the Oracle?"

"Duh. We've only heard those stories, like, a hundred times," Noctis says. "They're covering it in preschool, too."

"Let us tell you, then, of the Prophecy of Bahamut which accompanied his Gifts, and what it means for the line of the Lucis Caelum, the Kings of Lucis..."

* * *

"Round one," Cor murmurs. "Bahamut versus the kitten. Ready in three, two, one..."

Aulea elbows him in the side.

Luna and Noctis have just gone inside the internal chamber of the Crystal, Regis accompanying them as chaperone – at least at first. Bahamut insisted on meeting what he insisted on referring to as "He Who Will Be the Chosen King", plus Luna, so that he could judge him worthy.

Meanwhile, the rest of them are lingering outside, waiting.

Cor is the only one who thought ahead about their likely wait, and brought a picnic basket and blankets for everyone. 

"I think you should go after the mace first," Gladio says, rocking back and forth on his back and grabbing at his hindpaws with his hands to let him rock better. "Maces are _cool_."

"Don't you want the shield?" Clarus teases him.

"Well, _yeaaah_ ," Gladio says. " _Obviously_. But you haven't _found_ where the shield is yet."

"I wanna see the star," Prompto says. He refuses to believe that it's not an actual star, and he's exceedingly curious about it. 

"I think the first stop had better be the one that's closest," Cor says. "And as the person who will be taking up tomb-raiding as a secondary profession, I think I get the final say."

"Boooo," Prompto says.

"That _is_ the most logical approach," Ignis says, though he looks wistful. 

"Which one's your favorite, Iggy?" Gladio asks. 

"Well, I've always been interested in seeing the dual swords..."

"You're all being ridiculous," Cor says.

They all look sheepish.

" _Obviously_ the most interesting one is the katana."

The children's abashed looks disappear, replaced by smiles. 

"You just think that 'cause you like katanas," Prompto giggles. 

"That is indeed the case," Cor says. "What's your so-called point?"

"A better question is which Astral we should pursue for the Covenants after we finish with Bahamut," Cyrella says. "There's only six of them, not twelve like the Royal Arms –"

"Thirteen, mom," Gladio objects.

"Twelve, dear. Regis already has the Sword of the Father."

"Oh. Right."

“Actually, eleven,” Cor interjects. “Sylvia has the Trident of the Oracle in her care.”

"Thank you, Cor. As I was saying," she continues, "I believe that the Astrals will be more difficult."

"Bahamut indicated that he wished to have a fairly extensive period of testing Noctis," Scientia says. "And he warned that receiving a mark of an Astral was fairly burdensome, especially given Noctis' age. Perhaps we should space them out – a year apart, perhaps?"

"But then Noctis will be old by the time he finishes," Prompto says, wrinkling his nose. 

"Yes, dear," Aulea says. "But slow and steady wins the race – and at any rate, you don't want poor Cor going out all the time to get weapons, do you?"

"No!"

"That's what I thought."

"I think one Astral a year makes sense," Clarus says. "With twice or thrice-yearly quests to the tombs –"

"Thanks," Cor says dryly. 

"That way," Clarus continues, ignoring Cor, "we can try to avoid drawing too much of Niflheim's attention. It is eminently reasonable for the royal family to make certain pilgrimages – but not too often."

"Once a year, then," Aulea agrees. "We'll tell Regis; I'm sure he'll agree."

"Which one first, then?" Cyrella persists. "After Bahamut, of course."

"Well, let's look at this logically," Scientia says. "The Glacian's corpse is in Ghorovas Rift, in Niflheim –"

"So not her."

"I was thinking we'd keep her for last," Scientia agrees. "The Infernian is in the Rock of Ravatogh, which is pretty far away; the Fulgarian's forest is closer –"

"Leviathan is closer still," Cor interjects.

"How's that?" Cyrella asks. "Isn't Altissia her most favored city? That's even further than Ravatogh."

"Traditionally, yes, it is," Cor says. "But the Tidemother is also rather notoriously fond of the seas beyond Galadh."

"The seas beyond – you mean where the lost isle of Atlantioi was supposed to have been?"

"I do indeed. Galadh is Lucian territory – it would be less noticeable even than going as far as Hammerhead." 

"And it _would_ help establish a tradition of going on pilgrimage, while remaining in a relatively safe area," Clarus agrees.

"People will probably think I'm praying for another baby," Aulea says waspishly. She's still ticked off about the tabloid reports about her absence earlier this year. 

"I wanna have a baby," Gladio says.

"You're too young, Gladiolus," Cyrella says. 

"No, a baby brother. Or sister!"

"Why don't we table that discussion for now," Clarus says quickly. "I think they're coming out."

They are.

Regis looks vaguely shell-shocked, but Luna and Noctis look fine – refreshed, even.

Prompto, Gladio, and Ignis immediately rush over to them, overflowing with questions.

"How'd it go?" Aulea asks Regis. 

"Well," he says.

"Then why do you look quite so – perturbed?"

Regis wrinkles his nose. "Bahamut said that they were – cute."

They all stare at him.

"Noctis did his purring thing," Regis adds. "The one he does when he wants new people to like him. I think it worked."

“Of course it did,” Clarus says dryly, shaking his head. 

“They’ll need to come in regularly for lessons with Bahamut,” Regis adds. “Both to absorb the light of the Crystal, but also his teachings, which he wants to ensure they've learned before he grants Noctis the mark of his favor. They’ll have to balance it with schoolwork – or at least kindergarten, for Notics. But Bahamut estimates that within several months, Noctis will be ready to be judged, and given the Mark.”

“Lessons,” Aulea sniffs. “More likely he wants to be surrounded by a kitten as cute as Noctis.”

“…maybe.”

"As you said, Cor," Cyrella says, starting to smile. "Bahamut versus the kitten – round one, Noctis."

"By overwhelming cuteness," Cor agrees bemusedly. "Clearly a weapon I've been underutilizing."

"You're not cute, Cor."

He sniffs. "I'll have you know that I'm _extremely_ cute."

"I'd threaten to make you go in with them next time," Regis says. "But you'd probably punch him in the face or something."

"I've gotten better about that."

"You really haven't, Cor. You really, really haven't."

* * *

"- and that concludes my presentation as to why I should be allowed to advance an extra grade," Ignis concludes, clicking onto the final slide. 

Then he turns and looks at his mother with barely restrained eagerness.

His mother is frowning thoughtfully, which Ignis knows is a good sign – perhaps in other families it wouldn't be, but for him, a frown means that she's at least thinking his proposal over. If she meant to reject him out of hand, she wouldn't need to frown – she'd just do it. 

"Your presentation is very cohesive," Scientia the Elder, as he sometimes fancies her, finally says. "You've covered your academic level – stellar, of course – and your social development – improving rapidly – and even the potential future opportunities that might be available to you."

Ignis nods. His hands are sweaty with nervousness, but he resists the urge to wipe them off – he doesn't want to develop a nervous tell.

"Regardless, I must address one area you appear to have overlooked."

"Overlooked?" Ignis echoes. He didn't overlook anything – he accounted for all the different classes (math, languages, science), social issues (he argued that the more nuanced relationships he would be able to form outweighed the marginal benefit of interacting with his 'peers'), teacher interactions...he even charted out timelines from now until college to demonstrate the superiority of his proposed path.

He should _definitely_ be allowed to go straight to second grade.

What did he overlook?

His mother looks at him. "Ignis," she says calmly. "You could just say you'd rather be in Gladio's class."

Ignis flushes. 

He hadn't realized –

But yes, of course, that was a factor, and of course his mother realized it. The fact that it existed meant that he should've accounted for it, even if Gladio's currently being a _dumb-dumb_ who's making new friends and having playdates with _them_ instead of with Ignis, and so what if Ignis doesn't really have friends in his year – he's always been a bit too smart, a bit too off-putting for them – but he's never _cared_ , he's one of the few people who know about, and is even involved with, the team put together to save all of Eos from the Starscourge and that made him _special_ , okay, _really special_ , and – and –

"I will speak with your school in the morning," his mother tells him. "It's early enough in the year that advancing you right now should be fine – I'll take personal responsibility for ensuring that you get up to speed on anything you might have missed."

Ignis breathes a sigh of relief, almost a sob.

"Now come here, my little flamespark, and tell me what's really the problem. No presentation required."

Ignis runs to her and leaps into her arms, letting her catch him and hold him close just like she did when he was a baby, and she leans her head down and lightly butts heads with him – a gesture of solidarity and comfort among ibexes like them, and one that he's taught Prompto and Noctis and even Gladio, but no one can do it quite like his mother.

No one can do lots of things like his mother.

"I don't want to fall behind," he whispers to her, clinging to her. "I don't – I'm not one of them the same way. Noctis and Gladio and Prompto – their parents have been friends for _ages_."

"I've been friends with them for ages, too," his mother reminds him. "Not as long, of course; certainly not in regards to Regis and Clarus, but Cor I've certainly known since before he shed his adolescent spots."

"But Gladio's making all sorts of new friends," Ignis says stubbornly. "And Noctis has Prompto in his class, so they can play together _every day_ , and I don't have _anybody_ in mine that I like."

"No one at all?"

"No! They're all mean and make fun of me because I always answer the teacher and say that I'm a stupid hoof-footer and –" He shuts his mouth. He hadn't meant to say that.

But his mother doesn't get upset about him not standing up for himself and dealing with the problem, like he half-feared she would even while knowing that she was unlikely to. _She_ wouldn't have stood for any of that, not _his_ mother; his mother is strong and independent and perfect, capable of fighting any battle.

Utterly untouchable.

Ignis can't wait to grow up to be just like her. 

"You know," she finally says, after a while. "It's all right to feel hurt when people are cruel to you."

Ignis frowns. 

"Look at Cor, little flamespark," she says. "You know how he's suing half the city at any given time?"

Ignis giggles. Cor Leonis' litigious streak is perhaps less famous than his martial prowess among the general population, but among Insomnia's lawyers he is a legend. 

"He does that because he can't stand it when people are cruel," his mother tells him, gently stroking Ignis' back and the short fur of his hindquarters. "He feels hurt, and he lets that hurt drive him forward. If he didn't feel it, if he could just brush it off, then he would just keep going without paying attention. And the world would be a far worse place."

"No Prompto," Ignis agrees. They all know about the circumstances of Prompto's adoption – it didn't take long for him to realize upon reaching preschool that he wasn't like most of his class, and like Cor, and he asked about his heritage. Cor explained it to him, slowly more and more over time, and Prompto in turn explained it to them: that Prompto had been rescued from the depths of Niflheim by Cor personally, and when the bureaucrats of Lucis tried to separate them, he launched a battle unlike any the system had ever seen in order to keep him. 

Prompto, Ignis knows, is a little awkward about the fact that he doesn't exactly fit in just right, about how he's got a different set of instincts and how he's got the same hindquarters as the enemy of Lucis, a little shy about his lingering puppy fat that keeps him chubbier than many of his already rapidly slimming kitten classmates, and more than a little insecure about anyone leaving him, but if there's one thing that has never bothered him, it's the knowledge, deep to the foundation of who he is, that he is _wanted_. He wasn't just genetic luck-of-the-draw – his Cor helped rip apart the entire foster care system, just for the right to keep him. 

"No Prompto," Ignis' mom agrees. "And many other things, too." She butts his head again. "Even I get hurt when people are mean, you know."

"You _do_?" Ignis asks, amazed. "But who would be mean to _you_?"

Who would be dumb enough, he means. 

She laughs. "There's plenty of felidaetaurs who buy into all sorts of stupid stereotypes – that ungulaetaurs aren't as aggressive as a predator-drawn species, or that we'd be more likely to give in, or other ridiculous things like that. And those people didn't want to give me a chance, didn't give me the leg up that they gave to other people – never picked me for the most interesting projects, never hired me if they could get someone else, were always three times as critical if they saw that it was me. But I showed them, didn't I?"

"You _did_ ," Ignis says admiringly. Everyone knows his mother is a force to be reckoned with – one of the finest lawyers in all of Insomnia. "You definitely did."

"And you're going to show them, too," she tells him, but she smiles. "Still, there's no need to make it any harder than it has to be. I think Gladio will be more than happy to introduce you to his new friends, and to defend you if anyone starts in on the same nonsense."

"You think so?" Ignis asks anxiously. He's been worried about that, sick to his stomach, but he'd hoped - he so _hoped_...but if his mother thinks so, then surely it must be true. 

"Oh, yes. I'm sure of it. He's a bit silly, your Gladio, but his hearts are true."

"He's not _my_ Gladio," Ignis says, blushing again, though he's not sure why. "And he _is_ silly."

He's not sure why his mother is smiling.

"Well, as I said, I'll talk to the school tomorrow," she says. "But why don't you call Gladio and tell him today? He can come over for dinner. I'll make those dumplings he likes."

"He doesn't like anything as much as he likes Cup Noodles," Ignis warns her.

"I wouldn't dream of trying to compete," she says ironically. "But he likes my dumplings, too. Go on, now."

Ignis beams and runs off to find his phone. 

This is going to be _so much fun_.

* * *

"Hiya, Bammy!"

"My name is Bahamut," the echoing voice says sternly. "The Draconian. I know that you know this."

"We're friends now," Noctis declares. "Gladio is Gladdy and Ignis is Iggy and you're Bammy." 

"What about me?" Luna asks, smiling. "You call me Luna. And you call Prompto, Prompto."

"That's 'cause you're pretty," Noctis says dismissively. 

"...did you just imply that Bahamut is _not_ pretty?" Luna asks, covering her mouth with her hand to hide her growing smile.

"He's a voice," Noctis points out. "He can't be pretty or not pretty."

"He has a presence, you know," Luna says. "He's just choosing not to manifest it."

"Indeed, young Oracle," Bahamut says. "To begin our lesson for today –"

"But is he _pretty_?" Noctis demands, rolling over on his back and batting at the ceiling with his paws.

"Young King..."

"Prince!"

"Young Prince. Please focus."

"You're the one who chose the line of Lucis to bear your Gift," Luna says, starting to giggle. "And here I thought the phrase 'herding cats' was pre-Solheim."

"It is," Bahamut says with a tone in his voice that in a mortal 'taur might have been interpreted as a groan. "And yet, that very stubborn tendency has enabled Lucis to resist the dominion or encroachment of tyranny for hundreds of years."

"Is that supposed to imply something about Tenebrae?"

"It is not."

"Luna! Bammy!" Noctis shouts. "I found a bug!"

"Young Prince..."

"It's creepy and crawling and awful! Look!"

"Let it go, Noctis," Luna says. "It's just a cockroach."

"Perhaps today's lesson should be about steadfastness," Bahamut muses. "And endurance."

"Endurance," Luna says skeptically, drawing a hoof along the ground in a gesture of uncertainty. "Enduring – like a cockroach?"

"We get to turn into cockroaches?!" Noctis asks excitedly, dropping the bug and bounding over. "I wanna be a cockroach!"

"In many ways, young Prince, I assure you that you already are..."

"Maybe the lesson ought to be about hubris," Luna says tartly. "And the issues that may arise from not recognizing another person's value despite them not being equal to you in power."

"I am well-chastised, young Oracle. You are correct. Young Prince, may we now begin the lesson?"

"I've got a question," Noctis says. 

"Very well," Bahamut says with a sigh.

"You say that for most of the Covenants I've gotta do, I gotta defeat, or help defeat, the Astrals in battle, so I can prove myself worthy, right?"

"That is correct. Although in deference to your young age, and the participation of your guardians, I believe that the other Astrals will be inclined to permit you to be limited to an assisting role in any given battles."

"Right," Noctis says. "But if you don't manifest, how do I defeat you?"

"I am teaching you my judgment," Bahamut says. "When you have absorbed my lessons, and the light of Providence from the Crystal, I will grant you the Mark of Bahamut."

"But if you manifested, I could beat you and do it shorter!"

"That's not at all how it works."

"Well, lemme try!"

Bahamut is silent for a long moment. "Am I to understand that you believe that you can defeat me," he finally says, "alone and unassisted?"

"I'm sure that's not what Noctis means –" Luna starts, but she's interrupted. 

"Sure!"

A shadow suddenly fills the room, darkening it in its entirety, before rushing in – not unlike running through a cloud – and forming into a glorious figure out of myth.

Bahamut the Draconian is formed like any other ‘taur, only writ large: a dozen feet tall, his whole humanoid torso encased in armor – even his face hidden by a mask, with only his eyes showing the hints of life within. From the waist down, he is the Hesperian Dragon, a majestic creature covered in scales of purple and black, with claws of gold, a deadly lashing tail with a golden spike at the end, and large wings composed of steel swords. 

"Look upon me, young Prince of the Prophecy," he speaks, and his voice shakes the walls like the ringing of a terrible bell. "Look upon me and know –"

"You're _awesome_!" Noctis exclaims.

Bahamut pauses.

"I must admit the prince has a point," Luna agrees, because what else can she do? "You are, indeed, pretty - ah - awesome."

"Do you still believe you can defeat me?" Bahamut asks, deciding to ignore the interruption and get back to the point.

"Yep!" Noctis says cheerfully, and sticks out a hand. "Come on, thumb war! I'm the _best_!"

Bahamut is silent.

"I'm sorry," Luna says apologetically, covering her face with her hands. "Gladio just learned the game in school and taught it to all of them; they've been rather mad over it."

"You wish to challenge me," Bahamut says slowly, "the great and powerful Bahamut, War-Bringer, Law-Giver, the Great Dragon – to a _thumb war_?!"

"C'mon!" Noctis says, bounding over to Bahamut and clambering up his midsection before anyone, including Luna, even realizes what his intent is, much less has the ability to stop him. 

He puts his tiny little hand over Bahamut's – his entire palm is scarcely the size of the base of Bahamut's thumb. 

This does not stop or even slow Noctis down.

"Let's play!" he says, beaming up at Bahamut. 

"You are incorrigible," Bahamut says. 

"And cute!"

"...yes. That as well."

"Play with me?"

"I will teach you the lesson of determination in the face of overwhelming odds today," Bahamut decides. 

Noctis' face falls.

Bahamut reaches for Noctis, plucking him by his waist and underneath his belly, and places him gently on the floor.

"And then, my young Prince," Bahamut says, "you will show me how to play your – thumb war."

Noctis cheers.

Luna drops her face back into her hands.

But she's smiling.

(And she mentions to no one, neither Bahamut nor Noctis nor any of the adults, the glow of purple she sees in Noctis' eyes as they leave the Crystal chamber that day, the sign of one Marked with an Astral's favor - because as she well knows, there are many different ways to be defeated.)


	9. 9

Prompto curls his torso around Ignis and sticks his hind-paws under Gladio's belly, which the older boy accedes to with only a small grumble. "Why're they fighting?" he whines, his tail drooping. 

Ignis tilts his head, listening as hard as he can. It's quite hard to hear what the grown-ups are saying when you're sitting in the playroom, a fact which it has recently occurred to Prompto might in fact be deliberate.

Grown-ups are _sneaky_. 

"– no _rational_ reason for the _entire_ royal family to go –" Clarus is bellowing. He has a very good bellow for a tiger 'taur, especially given that they're similar to a species that is supposed to be quiet and sneaky and pounce-y.

At least, that's what they say about tigers in Prompto's kindergarten, but Cor says that stereotyping is dumb and pointless and doesn't actually tell you anything about anything.

Obviously Cor is right – he's _Cor_ – but the teacher does seem very intent on the whole thing, and there's all the nursery rhymes and the books and the hopscotch games, all 'lions will roar and bears will bore' and 'the fatter the cat, the more they snap' and stuff.

Then again, neither Clarus nor Cyrella nor Gladio are very quiet, and they're the only tigers Prompto knows personally. Look at Gladio - he's much more like a bear or a boar – or an _elephant_ – than he is a sneaky ambush-y cat, even though he has been trying to work on that in his fighting training. 

So Prompto supposes the teacher is wrong, and Cor is right.

No surprise there.

"– my _son_ , Clarus! Not to mention the fact that we don't know if he has to be present during the actual recovery of the Arms from the tombs or if we can actually go through with sending Cor for them –"

That's Regis, Noct's dad. He's the king, and that means he's very important, according to the kids at school. He's very silly, though, and he's great at making funny faces and giving rides on his hindquarters or over his shoulders, so Prompto supposes he does all of his Very Important-y-ness at other times. 

He's also yelling, but he's a lion, so Prompto supposes it's more normal. 

"– even _Cor_ agrees with –"

"– because _Cor_ is _insane_ –"

"– not _your_ position, Clarus, need I remind you –"

Cor himself comes through the door a few minutes later, a grumpy look on his face. He hates it when people yell _about_ him without actually talking _to_ him. 

He does smile briefly at the small group of them, though, and the way they're all huddle together in a comfortable pile – it's just Iggy and Gladio and Prompto, because Noct and Luna are away at one of their Bahamut lessons – even if it is what Gladio calls a Cor-smile, very small and mostly in the eyes. 

It's okay - as long as Prompto knows when Cor's smiling, and he always does, he doesn't care if other people have trouble identifying it. 

"Are they very angry?" Gladio asks immediately. Prompto's glad he did, because he wasn't entirely sure what to ask – he mostly just wants them to _stop yelling_. But Gladio's very brave, and it's not just that he's nearly two years older than Prompto, neither. Maybe it's part of being a Shield. 

"No, just stubborn," Cor says, shaking his head and pulling out his phone. "Don't worry; I'll go over their heads."

"But Regis is the king," Ignis objects. He's been reading a lot of books about something called etiquette recently, and he's gotten a lot more focused on rules. He says his mom told him the best way to beat someone using the rules is to know them better than the other side knows them, and Prompto supposes that's true. That being said, he doesn't quite know who exactly Ignis is trying to beat. "How can you go over his head? He's the ultimate arbitrator in Lucis."

"He might be the ultimate arbitrator," Cor says wryly, "but I happen to know that the ultimate arbitrator likes sleeping on a bed instead of a couch as much as the rest of us." He holds the ringing phone up to his hear and gestures for silence. "Aulea?"

A pause.

"Yes, they're still arguing – no, the question now is whether you and Regis should accompany Noctis out to the Tomb of the Wise. It's the closest one, just out in Northern Leide, out in the open and everything, but it _is_ outside of the Wall."

Another pause.

"Yes, of _course_ I'll be there to protect you. As will half the Crownsguard, if I know Clarus. He's worried about tipping off Niflheim – no, I have no idea why he thinks that. A leak, maybe..?"

Cor pauses again, but this time it's a long pause, interspersed with 'Hmmm's and 'Hn's. 

"That means he likes what she's saying," Prompto whispers to Iggy and Gladio, who look pleased by the translation. Prompto sometimes translates things he doesn't need to – he's _enthusiastic_ like that, and Cor says enthusiasm counts for a lot and Prompto shouldn't ever let anyone get him down – so he's happy when they appreciate it.

"No, that's a good idea," Cor says eventually. "We could definitely disguise it as a picnic – no, I _do_ think it would raise morale among the population, to know that we feel safe enough to venture out. It's not as though we haven't been out there before – Wiz's Chocobo Farm is out past there –"

Prompto remembers Wiz. It's heaven in a shower of multicolored feathers. 

Best. Birthday. _Ever_.

"I agree going in state is something different entirely," Cor is saying. "That's what's crawled up Clarus' - oh? Huh. Hadn't thought about that."

He's silent for a few minutes, frowning, but it's just his thinking frown. 

"I don't see the problem," he finally says. "Yes, of course there's no way around inviting him if Regis is going to be coming in full pomp that close to Hammerhead. But why _wouldn't_ we invite Cid? He and Regis and Clarus were always close –"

He falls quiet. 

"Who's Cid?" Iggy asks. 

Prompto shrugs his ignorance, but Gladio answers, "He used to work at the palace a long time ago – he went traveling with Dad and Regis and Cor, and there was also a guy called Weskham. Apparently Weskham stayed in Altissia 'cause he liked it better, and Cid stayed in Hammerhead 'cause that's where his family was – his brother's family, anyways."

"Why doesn't he come visit, then?" Prompto asks, tail wagging. He likes meeting new people!

"They appear to have fallen out," Iggy observes. 

"Something about his brother's family," Gladio says. "Dad says that while they were gone, there was a bad attack and some people died, and Cid got angry and blamed Regis for taking him away."

"That's sad," Prompto says, letting his chin droop. "Still, can we go meet him?"

"We can indeed," Cor says, hanging up his phone. "Aulea will talk some sense into them. Cid might still be angry, he might not – he's an ornery old jackrabbit, and he was set in his ways since long before I met him – but he's still running that old garage and he won't turn away the King of Lucis if he comes visiting. The rest of Hammerhead would never forgive him."

Prompto jumps up – tripping a little because he forgets to pull his paws out from under Gladio's belly before doing so, but he catches himself quickly enough – and barks, "Are we all going, then?!"

"Yes," Cor says. "It'll be a good cover, and that way we can at least mark off one Royal Arm with Noctis coming with us so we can see what that looks like. Once we know that, I'll go and get the second one in a month or two, once the attention dies down, and if all goes well, the same thing will happen. That way we'll know if Noctis has to be with me when I get the Arms."

Because they need to collect the Royal Arms, and Cor's gonna be the one to do it because he's the bestest warrior in Lucis. 

Prompto's proud of him, but he sometimes wishes Cor was the second-bestest or something so he wouldn't have to go out on missions so often. 

"Not a long trip?" he asks.

"Very short," Cor promises. "These are the two nearest Tombs."

Prompto considers this and nods firmly. It's acceptable. 

"I would be interested in seeing the tomb of the Wise," Iggy says thoughtfully.

"It's not that interesting," Cor says. "Trust me. What's going to be interesting is that this will be the unofficial launch of our Procession."

Prompto yips happily. Iggy's mom has talked with Bahamut – Prompto feels bad for Bahamut, because when Iggy's mom Talks To someone, they _stay_ Talked To – and while they aren't too sure as to whether Noctis needs to be there to collect the Royal Arms, even Prompto knows that he _definitely_ needs to be there for the Covenants with the Astrals. 

Prompto's been reading up on the Astrals – okay, he's been bringing books with the Astrals to Cor and Iggy for them to read _to_ him because Prompto likes pictures better than reading – and actually, he's discovering that everything about the Astrals is pretty interesting.

No one knows where they came from, but everyone knows they were from the pre-Solheim days, before everyone was a 'taur. Prompto had a bit of trouble with the idea when he was a little puppy – even today, he still wonders if people could really have been something other than 'taurs, because it just doesn’t seem realistic – but Cor explained that Solheim was a whole big empire of "humans", which were like 'taurs except they only had two legs that were pink and mostly hairless like 'taurs were from the waist up. It was only after the big Astral war that everyone turned into 'taurs because of radio-action or something like that and that was also why Eos was a lot smaller than the pre-Solheim maps were, with lots of markings in the watery parts around them of the places that sank, like Atlantioi and Aus-tail-ia. 

That part's interesting, but the rest of the research about where the tombs are and everything like that is kinda boring, actually, but Iggy and Gladio are really into that portion of it. Iggy for the history, and Gladio because he reads a lot of lovey-dovey books set in Solheim or the post-Solheim Era or the times of the Great Kings and Queens of the past. 

Lovey-dovey books are gross, in Prompto's opinion. They're all about people being unsure as to who they are going to marry and making a whole big emotional mess about it. Prompto is glad that Noct is going to marry him and Luna and that'll be the end of it; he doesn't want to go through any gross mating rituals.

He thinks he might be okay with kissing, though. And he _does_ want a mate one day, not like Cor who doesn't want one at all because he's ace-eggs-tool, or like Iggy's mom Scientia who had a mate but they didn't get along so she sent him away. 

Prompto's sure that won't be a problem for him. Noct is the _best_ , and Luna's really awesome, too. No problems there.

How did he get on the subject of mates? Weird. Everyone else is still talking about the Procession. 

It was Gladio's mom's idea, actually – apparently, back in the day, the Kings of Lucis traveled all around with a great big group of people to show Niflheim that they weren't scared of nothing, and they were going to do that again to all the different places that the Astrals were hiding because then no one would know what they were up to. 

Because it's a secret. From everyone, but especially from Niflheim.

Prompto's originally from Niflheim – you can tell 'cause he's a canidaetaur not a felidaetaur or a ungulaetaur – but he raised in Lucis and that makes him Lucian, and that means he can participate in big important Lucian secrets like the real reason behind the Procession. 

Besides, Noct would just tell Prompto anyway even if nobody else told him, because Noct tells Prompto everything. He even tells him all the lessons he's been working on with Bahamut, all about being a good person and a good leader and sacrifice and peace and doing hard things you don't really want to do for the good of everyone and all that. 

Prompto doesn't always understand, but he can usually make Noct laugh about it – like the time he compared the "doing hard things you don't want to" lesson to doing unpleasant chores, which Noct really liked; he said it made it a lot clearer than how Bahamut was saying it. 

Prompto's also promised Noct that he won't have to go deal with the other Astrals alone the way he's been dealing with Bahamut – they all promised that, him and Gladio and Iggy. They're not being left behind, no sir. If Noct is old enough to go, then they all are.

And right now, that means they're going on a picnic, yay! To a tomb!

Actually...

"What's a tomb?" Prompto asks, tail wagging.

Then they tell him, and he really didn't want to know that. Why would they hide weapons next to dead bodies?! Why not just use a wine rack like Cor does?!

Grown-ups are _gross_.

* * *

The picnic is, in Gladio's view, an unmitigated disaster. 

Okay, okay, it's not _that_ bad. But it certainly doesn't go smoothly or anything – for one thing, it rained on the day they were planning on going, so they go on a different day a few days later, and that seems like it's messed everyone up. They leave late, they have trouble fitting everybody into the cars, Noct's dad's car nearly breaks down...make that, _does_ break down, but he's able to revive it with fifteen minutes of sweet-talking and prayer.

"I can't believe some people doubt that the Kings of Lucis are blessed by the Astrals," Gladio's mom says loudly. "It's obviously true. After all, damn it if it didn't take all Six of 'em trying together to make that old heap of rust go again."

Noct's dad flips her off, which is a bad and very unkingly gesture but one which Gladio totally understands. Even if his mom _is_ right about his car.

Anyway, Regis doesn't really mean anything offensive by it; if he did, Gladio'd have to take offense at that, king or no king. Gladio's dad long ago explained the difference between being playfully rough with someone you love and with someone you don't, and it's a good thing, too, because otherwise Gladio'd have to fight him. No way is he letting anyone insult his mom for real without a fight. 

...even if his mom fights way better than he can. Maybe even better than Dad - she's really tall and strong. 

Not the point, though.

But all of those initial disasters aside, they eventually get to Hammerhead, and when they get to Hammerhead they meet Cid.

Perhaps more to the point, they meet _Cindy_.

She's a few years older than Luna, and the difference shows. Luna's still a kid, albeit a very pretty one. Cindy's a _woman_. 

Sure, none of the adults notice, since she's still pretty young, but _Gladio's_ sure old enough to notice, especially since it's just like some of the pictures on the covers of his romance books. 

Unfortunately for everyone, Prompto notices too.

It's love at first sight, quite obviously, even though Gladio's pretty sure Prompto doesn't actually know why he keeps blushing and stuttering every time she's around, or why he keeps running to do errands for her, or why his tail practically sprains itself wagging for her.

"Puppy love," Gladio's mom says with a happy sigh. "Isn't it cute?"

"It's trouble is what it is," Iggy's mom says, sounding neutral and thoughtful and a bit like a subway announcer like always. Gladio'd never say that to Iggy – he'd probably take it as an insult – but it isn't, honestly. It's a very relaxing, reassuring sort of voice; it just doesn't really emote all that well. 

But Iggy's mom _is_ super smart, and Gladio agrees with her entirely that Prompto's little crush is nothing but trouble.

It wouldn't have been if someone hadn't been _dumb enough_ to bring it to Noct's attention, _Iggy_.

Honestly, Iggy takes this whole royal retainer thing way too seriously. Just because Noct asks about something doesn't mean you have to _tell_ him. 

Anyway, now Noct's practically blue in the face from jealousy – he thought Cindy was pretty, too, right up until Prompto went running to get her a wrench instead of staying to play an arcade game with Noct – and he's decided he hates Hammerhead and everything it stands for and always will, etc.

Which isn't great, because Cid and Regis and Dad are having a rip-roaring argument not ten yards away. Gladio's not even sure what it's about – every time he "casually" wanders by, they all go quiet before he can eavesdrop properly, which really means that Gladio needs to work some more on his stealth, damnit – but it's a big one. It's nearly midday, and they haven't even left Hammerhead yet. 

Gladio's starting to get hungry, actually.

At least Cor seems to be stepping in to help keep Prompto from flopping over in sheer delight any time Cindy so much as asks him to pass the salt, though Gladio's pretty sure he's just hanging out with the kids to avoid the grown-up argument. All Gladio's been able to suss out is that Cid thinks Regis puts kids at risk, and Cor's name's come up a few times on the subject, and everyone knows that Cor really hates being talked about. 

Noct is _still_ pouting. Not even Luna is able to draw him out, he just turns his back on her and curls up into an unhappy ball. He's not even doing a loaf, and Noct practically _lives_ in the loaf pose. 

There is no way they're going to go tomb-raiding like this.

Yup. It's clearly all up to Gladio to fix this.

He starts with Noct.

"He still likes you better, you know," he tells him. 

Noct grunts.

"And even if he didn't, it doesn't matter," Gladio continues.

"What do you mean, it _doesn't matter_?!" Noct hisses, turning to look at Gladio. All his fur's standing on end and his claws are in threat-pose. "Of course it matters!"

"Why? He lives with Cor back in Insomnia."

"They could be penpals," Noct growls. His tail is lashing with genuine distress. "And when he grows up..."

"It doesn't matter," Gladio says patiently, "because you've got a duty, right? You're the Chosen. All those lessons you do with Bahamut – you just gonna forget them because you're too busy being jealous?"

"No," Noct says, but his tone is still whiny. "I just don't want Prompto to..."

"You're going to do your duty," Gladio says firmly. "Because you're the _prince_ and you're _chosen_ and that means you've got to put things aside and focus on doing what you've gotta, even if you don't wanna."

Noct nods, the whininess finally fading away to be replaced with resolve. "You're right."

"Besides," Gladio says casually. "If we have to go to the tombs, Cindy won't be invited. It's a secret, you know?"

Predictably, Noct perks right up at that. "Definitely time to go to see the tomb," he says.

"We gotta convince your dad of that," Gladio points out, nodding to where the grown-ups are arguing.

"Do we really?" Noct asks. "We could just tell Cor and have him do it."

"Good idea."

They tell Cor that they want to go to the tombs, and next thing you know, the picnic baskets are out of the cars and the Crownsguard is trotting off in a certain direction, with Cor ushering all five of them – that is, the four of them and Luna, _not_ Cindy – in that same direction, very pointedly not bothering to tell any of the arguing adults about it.

Upon realizing they're about to be left behind, Regis, Cid and Dad all run to catch up.

Cor's _such_ a great tactician. Gladio wants to learn everything he knows. 

"– just promise me you won't let Cindy get involved in this nonsense," Cid is grumbling. "She's all I got left of 'em, you know?"

"I know," Regis says. He sounds tired. "If there was any other choice..."

"I know, I know," Cid says, but his voice has gone soft. "You royalty types never did get to pick your own way. Y'know, I didn't say it earlier, but it sure as hell's good to see you, Reggie."

"What am I," Gladio's dad says, "chopped liver?"

"You're a menace, s'what you are, letting your king come out here past the safety of the Wall."

"Hey! _I'm_ not the one who wanted him to come out here!"

"You always did have sense, Clarus; it's just that you let the lunkhead here call the shots, that's the problem."

"I _am_ the king, you know," Regis interjects. "He's kind of _supposed_ to let me call the shots..."

"Not in his area of expertise," Cid says firmly. "Just like I'm gonna fix up the Regalia, and never give a whimper, even though you think you can handle an antique classic like that like you're playing easy-squeezy with a lump of cheese –"

"You act like she's from the pre-Solheim days," Regis complains. "She's not _that_ old."

"She's got some life left in her," Clarus agrees.

"Barely. About as much as me!" Cid announces, and laughs. The laugh fades as they start to see where they are. "So we're off to the tombs, are we? What's that got to do with anything?"

"Let me explain..."

Gladio decides that that's enough for him and turns back to where Prompto is sighing heavily and looking back towards Hammerhead, where Cindy stayed, and where Noct is turning all pouty again. 

Ugh. Man, Gladio's glad that Iggy's not like that. He's way too serious to ever start being all over-the-top like that, except maybe about certain types of food. Normally Gladio teases him about that, but he's grateful about it, too, 'cause Iggy's _his_ friend and no one else is allowed to have him. 

Well, no one but Noct and Prompto and Luna. They're all right. Not like that stupid-face in their class that Gladio got in trouble for punching, but in fairness the guy did start it when he called Iggy a four-eyed teacher's pet.

And, sure, Iggy _is_ a four-eyed teacher's pet, but that's what _Gladio_ calls him, not _other_ people. Iggy's feelings were hurt and that's not okay by Gladio. 

Lost in these very agreeable musings, Gladio almost misses the first view of the tomb of the Wise.

It's a giant dome. Like, an upside-down bowl sitting squat on the ground.

That's it.

"Is it...larger on the inside?" Iggy says, sounding similarly unimpressed.

"No," Cor says. "This is the tomb of the Wise. He considered himself above booby-traps and elaborate hiding places like dungeons or secret caves."

He sounds like he approves of the decision, when obviously booby-traps, dungeons and secret caves sound _awesome_.

_Grown-ups_. So _weird_.

Gladio's going to be just as awesome as he is now when he grows up, that's for sure. 

They start making preparations for the big picnic, leaving just about everyone to stay behind to set up the picnic area, covering for them while they slip away to the tombs. 

Well, technically Gladio and Iggy are supposed to stay behind, but yeah right. A threat of a tantrum puts paid to that stupid idea quickly enough.

The tomb itself is right inside the entrance – Noct's dad has a key – and it's carved to look like one of the old kings, and in the king's hands there's a big old sword. 

"Cool," Gladio says. He's been working on strength training so that he could swing a sword like that around one day.

The adults chuckle. 

"Through the eyes of a kitten," Gladio's dad says wistfully, which A – hey! Gladio's not a kitten anymore! And B – what's that supposed to mean, anyway?!

"Come with me, Noctis," Cor instructs, then glares at Regis when he tries to say something or move forward. Gladio thinks this is because it's Cor's job to collect the Royal Arms for Noct, and he doesn't want Noct's dad being too over-protective or something. 

But he leads a curious and unusually bright-eyed Noctis up to the tomb and lifts him up by his bellies. "You remember your lessons in absorbing power?" he asks. 

Noct nods.

"Try that first. If it doesn't work, just try to lift it."

Noct nods again, and holds out his chubby little hand. 

Gladio's not expecting anything really, to be honest, because these things always work on, like, the third try in the movies. But instead something _does_ happen: the sword suddenly glows white and yanks itself out of the statue's grip, floating in the air in front of Noct.

It's pretty, Gladio thinks for exactly half a second before the sword suddenly _stabs right into Noct's chest_. 

He yells.

They all yell.

Cor staggers back and tries to turn his back to the tomb, protecting Noct, but it's too late – the sword is gone, and Noct's eyes are closed.

"Noct!" Prompto shrieks, a plaintive howl of terror. 

Cor kneels down and Prompto zips forward, going through Noct's dad's legs, even. Gladio isn't much better, though, he's trying to push his way forward and he would be, if his mom hadn't caught both him and Iggy by the scruff of their necks to hold them back. Luna's being held back by Scientia. 

But it's okay – Noct is already opening his eyes and sitting up. Prompto is hugging him, and everyone looks very relieved.

"What was _that_?" Gladio demands crossly from his mother.

"I suspect that was what we came here for," his mom says dryly. "He looks okay now, though, I think he just closed his eyes from the shock. Let's go back to the picnic before anyone notices we're gone."

And, well, that ends up being that.

It's kind of a boring ending, in Gladio's view, but Noct seems pretty pleased with it.

Mostly because Prompto stays by his side the entire way back to Insomnia and doesn't even remember to say goodbye to Cindy. 

Gladio cheerfully elbows Iggy on the way back to the car. "Glad we're more mature than they are, yeah?"

Iggy smiles that tiny little half-smile that makes his head dip and his glasses shine a bit in the light, the one Gladio likes best. "Indeed."

* * *

Ignis rather likes Luna, as far as unexpected big sisters go. 

He hadn't really ever anticipated having a sister – his mother was quite vocal as to her opinion that having gone through one breeding cycle, she was entirely done with the entire reproductive process insofar as it involved bearing her own young – but Luna had to go somewhere, and, really, she fits in very well with them even beyond their shared ungulaetaur heritage. 

She's perhaps sweeter than the usual Scientia style – she was rather shocked by the vicious debates they have over dinner as a means of exercising their minds and oratory skills – but she's quiet and self-contained and introverted in much the same way that they are. Like Ignis, she is entirely comfortable sitting in silence for hours with a book and some company, and her manners are impeccable – Ignis has been learning a lot from her. True, she usually prefers people to books, something neither Ignis nor his mother really gets, but other than that, Ignis feels as though he fundamentally understands her and she him. 

Growing to love her as the elder sister he's never known to want is easy, after that. He can't imagine not having her around, and his mother's jokes about claiming her as an illegitimate child become less and less joke-ish by the day. 

In short: Ignis' life is much improved by the addition of Luna to his home.

The same, sad to say, cannot be said of Prompto. 

Ignis loves Prompto dearly – his life would be far emptier without Prompto's warmth, humor, and endless loyalty - but he must admit that Prompto is...

Loud.

Very, very loud.

"It's only a week," Ignis murmurs to himself as he straightens up the living room that Prompto inadvertently rampaged through earlier. 

He nearly jumps a foot into the air when a hand lands on his shoulder. 

"Forgive me," Luna says, her quiet voice soothing. "I didn't mean to startle you."

"I was distracted," Ignis replies, smiling at her. "Think nothing of it."

"You know Prompto means well, don’t you?" she asks with a trace of concern.

"Of course!" Ignis exclaims, shocked by the implication. Prompto was _his_ friend first, after all; he would never regret inviting Prompto into his home. "He's just excessively energetic, that's all – we'll be better about taking him out for daily runs. Mother says that those will ensure that he won't get overstimulated like that anymore, and there will be no problem."

Luna nods, satisfied. "And, after all, the Marshal will only be gone a week."

Ignis can't help a smile. "I think everyone will be happier when he returns. Prompto misses him - we all do –"

"And you miss your privacy," she says knowingly. 

"Well, yes. But Prompto knows that I'm an introvert and he doesn't hold it against me. He's a good 'taur."

"I know he is," Luna says. "His hearts are always in the right place. I'm so very glad that you have such good friends – all of you."

"You're our friend, too," Ignis says, leaning over to butt her shoulder with his forehead. "Don't forget it."

"I won't," she laughs. "You are all my dearest friends, though I must admit that I miss having girl-friends closer to my age. Writing to Cindy is lovely – she's so down to earth, it makes me laugh! – but I do wish I could see her more often."

"No luck finding more friends at school?" Ignis asks. "I had the same problem, you know, before I got into Gladio's year."

"I'm still new," Luna says, agreeing with a slight shrug. "There are a few girls that I like quite a great deal, but of course there is no one quite like the friends I had back in Tenebrae, or anyone with whom I have formed that immediate connection that Cindy and I had. Don't worry, Iggy; I'll find someone, I'm sure."

Still, her expression is troubled.

"What's the matter?" Ignis asks. 

"No – it's nothing, I'm sure –"

"Come now," Ignis says. "Who can you tell if not me?"

"I think I like you much better than Ravus and I feel _terrible_ about it," Luna confesses suddenly, the words bursting out of her. "It's an awful thing to say, I know, but he's gotten so _angry_ these last months – about _everything_ – and it's only gotten worse, recently. He said he was happy for me to go, that he understood that it was my duty, but now he seems so angry about it - and I think he blames King Regis for taking me...and, oh, it’s not just him, either! I am not certain that I have the words to describe the feelings inside of me - it's just so _nice_ , coming back home in the afternoon and knowing that Scientia will usually be back in time to make dinner, even if she does keep working afterwards. It isn't like that at home in Tenebrae. My mother's duties as the Oracle keep her busy most of the day, and afterwards she's too tired to talk much. And I understand, of course, that she is doing her duty just as I do mine; I hold no grudge and I love her all the more for it. And yet - I love it here. I love it here, and I feel dreadful about loving it – does that make sense?"

Ignis blinks. It doesn't, not really. "You...feel bad about being happy?"

"Yes, I suppose that is what I'm saying, isn't it?" she says, shaking her head. "I _was_ happy, you know, to come do my duty here. I've always known that my duty was more important than anything, that our responsibilities to the future and to the people are something that we must sacrifice everything for, even happiness, but somehow it all feels so terribly strange to actually _enjoy_ doing my duty. I suppose I wasn't expecting that, somehow."

Out of lack of other options, Ignis reaches over and gently squeezes her hand. She smiles at him and squeezes back.

"Thank you, Ignis. It feels good to say it out loud – it's always better to articulate one's fears and concerns, so that you know what exactly it is."

Ignis nods, understanding. "Or else you'll be like Prompto, who says he's just upset for no reason –"

"– when of course the real reason is clear," Luna agrees. "It's different, somehow, isn't it, when you know that your guardian is out on a potentially dangerous mission rather than an easy one?"

"Gladio's father says that this one isn't that difficult," Ignis says. "It's only the Axe of the Conqueror – the other nearby Royal Arm – and the only reason this will take a week is because of the necessity of evasive maneuvers to disguise his presence and his goal. But yes, I agree – I find that even I'm more anxious than usual, and I'm well aware of the danger the Marshal routinely incurs on his missions."

Luna nods. "Especially with the King so tired."

"Is he more tired than usual?" Ignis asks, surprised. He hasn't noticed.

"He's drained," Luna says. "I've seen it before, with my mother – the effort of the Wall is pulling on him more than ever." She shakes her head. "It seems worse, especially now that Noct has officially finished his lessons and obtained the blessing of Bahamut. Noct’s noticed, even if he doesn’t talk about it. And with Prompto being too anxious to help comfort him..."

Ignis nods, frowning. Noct has been coming over more and more, and even Gladio seems infected with worry, though he'd assumed it was related to something happening at school. 

"I am certain that all will be well," Luna says, seeming to come to a decision. "I will offer my healing to the King – no, I will _insist_ upon it. I was raised to the position of Oracle, after all, even if it was a bit early. Despite my youth, I can offer the King succor, and peace, and I intend to do it."

Ignis squeezes her hand again, concerned. It seems like everyone is out of sorts now, for all sorts of reasons, and there is nothing he can do to help.

Well.

Not _nothing_.

If there is one thing that Ignis' mother has taught him, it's that even when there's nothing to be done, there is always a way to help lift people's spirits – and she taught him the secret of doing it, too.

"Let's go get Noct and Prompto and Gladio," Ignis declares, turning away from the mess in the living room. He can clean it up later, no matter how much his organized mind shouts in agony at the idea of leaving the room in shambles. 

"Oh?" Luna asks.

"Yes," Ignis says firmly. "I'm going to bake gingerbread cookies, lots of them, and I'm going to need _everyone's_ help to decorate them."

"Gingerbread!" Luna laughs. "That's a winter treat, and it's already past the Glaciad - we're well into spring, if not summer."

"I'll make the summer version," Ignis says dismissively. There are a handful of spices he can replace – lighter ones, to give the warmth but not the heaviness – and he can use fresh berries mix up some berry-flavored frosting for everyone to use. But it has to be gingerbread. Everyone loves gingerbread, and it always needs a ridiculous amount of decoration, and the decoration always takes a ridiculous amount of time that leaves no time for anyone to think or worry about anything else. "Come on, let's go."

By the time the Marshal does return with the Axe two days later – a full day earlier than his proposed timeline - he is greeted by the sight of a small gingerbread town and a handful of children covered in frosting from their daily additions to it. 

"Gimme the Axe!" Noct demands, sticking out a frosting-covered hand. "Iggy says we can't eat any of the houses or the people till I'm done."

The Marshal looks perhaps a little amused, but he unclasps the Axe from his back and kneels down before Noct. "Go ahead," he says, watching Noct intently. "Before your parents get here and start to worry and over-think it."

Just like with the Sword of the Wise, the Axe of the Conqueror glows white and floats in the air for a moment, before shooting straight into Noct's chest.

Noct staggers back.

"Noct!" Prompto barks.

"No, it's okay," Noct says, albeit shakily, but then he straightens with determination. He’s clearly got bigger things on his mind at the moment than his mysterious prophesied destiny. "Iggy, can we eat the gingerbread _now_?!"

"Oh very well," Ignis says, secretly pleased. He knows exactly how crazy for gingerbread Noct gets. "Go ahead."

By the time the other grown-ups arrive, the gingerbread town looks like it's been attacked by hungry daemons. 

"Cor," Regis says from the door. " _Really_?"

"What?" the Marshal asks from where he's lying on the floor, surrounded by happily munching children. His own face is covered with crumbs – he's been cheerfully biting the heads off of all the Niflheim MTs they crafted. "It's _gingerbread_."


	10. 10

Less than a month to go until their first major expedition to try to establish a Covenant with an Astral, and they’ve started climbing the walls. 

Literally.

Well, sort of. 

“It’s okay,” Regis calls, doing his _utmost best_ to keep from laughing. It would only offend the poor child’s dignity. 

“It is _not_!” said poor child shrieks, clinging to the cliff.

Prompto came to fetch Regis immediately when it happened, of course, and Noctis and Gladio are milling anxiously underneath the sheer cliff face where poor Ignis is trapped about halfway up. 

“How did this happen?” Regis asks.

They’re at their favorite fishing hole – well, Regis’ and Noctis’, anyway, since the other boys tend to get bored fishing and run off to play with each other nearby while Regis teaches Noctis how to fish properly. This place is inside one of Insomnia’s parks, within the safety of the Wall that glimmers above them in the sky, but isolated enough that most people don’t think to come here. Regis loves it, and comes whenever the business of ruling can spare him. Especially now that Noctis is finally old enough to really appreciate the more sedate joys of fishing – the preparation, the casting, the wait, the capture. 

They were sitting by the water, waiting patiently, when Prompto ran up in a frenzy to explain that Ignis had gotten stuck, somehow, on the near-sheer cliff face by the side of the park. 

“Well?” Regis prompts when nobody answers. He’s the only one out with the children today, since this visit is within the Wall. Yes, there’s a few Crownsguard in civilian dress lingering in nearby coffee shops and admiring the botanical gardens not far away, but Cor’s trained them well: it’s subtle enough that Regis can pretend they’re alone. “What happened? How did Ignis even get up that far?”

“Well,” Gladio says, looking sheepish. “Um…”

“Gladio was saying that no one could climb the sheer cliff face and Ignis explained that ibexes can climb sheer cliff faces and Gladio asked if Ignis could and Ignis wasn’t sure and then Gladio dared him,” Prompto says all in a rush. “And so Ignis decided to go up and then he got stuck.”

Regis presses his lips together. He will not laugh. He _will not_ laugh.

“And you never,” he says, then cleared this throat, “you never considered that there might be a difference in training for ibex ‘taurs in the mountains and ones that live in the city?” 

Ignis’ glare could have caused blisters.

“He _did_ get halfway up?” Gladio offers.

“Yes,” Regis says dryly. “However, I remember several trees where you successfully got all the way up, young Gladio. The problem was always with coming down.”

“I know this is extremely uncharacteristic of me to say,” Ignis says from his perch. “But I would appreciate less discussion of this subject and more activity aimed at resolving it. Specifically, activity geared towards getting me _down_.”

“Well, my boy,” Regis says, looking up at him. “As far as I’m concerned, there are only three options: one, we call the fire department and get them to bring ladders –”

“Certainly _not_!” Ignis yelps. 

“Two, we ask the Crownsguard spying on us to come and try to see if any of them can lasso you down –”

“No!”

“Or you could jump,” Regis concludes.

“I’ll break my legs!” Ignis brays, looking distressed.

“No, no,” Regis says soothingly. “Jump to me, and I’ll catch you.”

“Are you sure?”

“If necessary, I will catch you with magic,” Regis promises. Sure, he doesn’t keep that much in practice any more, but he’s pretty sure he could warp to Ignis mid-air if he needed to. 

Honestly, he could probably warp to Ignis _now_ , but then he’d be holding onto Ignis some eighteen feet in the air with nothing to put his paws on, and that seems like a bad idea.

Ditto the idea of summoning a sword and using that as his warp object. He doesn’t trust his aim after all these years.

...maybe Cor is right and he should get back into training more often. It's just that he's so _busy_ all the time...

Ignis is clearly considering his options: total humiliation, nearly total humiliation, or jumping.

“Okay,” he finally says. “I’ll try jumping.”

“You can do it!” Gladio calls up.

“You don’t get to say a _word_ ,” Ignis says crossly. “ _You_ I’m going to deal with when I get down again.”

“It was just a dare! You didn’t _have_ to do it!”

“You’re just digging yourself in deeper, my boy,” Regis advises Gladio. “If I were you, I'd stop now.”

Gladio subsides, pouting. 

“All right,” Regis calls up. “On three, yes? One – two – _three_!”

Ignis leaps.

Regis catches him.

He gets a flailing hoof in the gut for his trouble, but he _does_ catch him.

He puts Ignis down. “Now, next time –”

“Don’t take any of Gladio’s stupid dares,” Ignis says. “Yes, sir. Now as for _you_ –”

And he’s off like a shot, Gladio already leaping away as fast as his paws can take him which is fairly quick but not quite as quick as his furious pursuer. 

Prompto is laughing and barking and clapping, running circles around the two of them.

Noctis is shaking his head. “They’re silly,” he declares, but he’s smiling. 

“Indeed they are,” Regis says. “They could’ve been with us, fishing.”

“Nuh-uh,” Noctis says. “I told them to go away. Fishing is for _us_.”

Regis is surprised into a laugh. He hadn’t realized it was intentional on Noctis’ part. 

He puts his hand on Noctis’ shoulder. “Yes,” he says warmly. “Yes, it is. Now, shall we see if we’ve gotten a bite?”

Noctis beams at him and puts his hand in Regis’.

If only they could stay this way forever, Regis thinks to himself. If only Noctis hadn’t been the Chosen King of the Prophecy –

There’s nothing for it, Regis reminds himself. It is what it is, and all the ‘if only’s in the world won’t change that. All there is to do is to make the best of the time they have.

They walk back to the pond, hand-in-hand.

* * *

It's nearly midsummer. 

Midsummer: the day of the great Hydread Festival, held in honor of the fearsome Tidemother who sleeps beneath the waves. The day when each window in Insomnia Port is hung with water-chimes, the fountains are decorated with lights, and thousands and thousands of paper boats are released into the waves – a sacrifice of paper into the maw of Leviathan in the place of the real boats she used to demand. 

All in all, a perfect excuse for the King of Lucis and his family to go all together to Insomnia Port, the nearest portion of Lucis to the islands of Galadh beyond. 

No one would know about their real destination until it was too late to stop it – Cor hasn't even told Drautos, who is stepping in to help command the Crownsguard in Cor's absence, that anything is going on beyond a simple visit to the Port for the holiday. If anything, he's made a few comments about Regis wanting to show his son the traditions of his kingdom, and implied that he's being dragged along as the guardian of Prince Noctis' best friend, just the same way he's been doing with anybody else who's been left out of the loop.

It's nothing personal – oh, all right, it _is_ a little personal; Cor would've preferred to leave the Crownsguard in Monica's hands, or Riyad's, or Tempus', or even, Six help them all, _Gloriana_ , good reliable soldiers all. But Captain Drautos came very highly recommended from the countryside, where he'd achieved some significant (if unfortunately temporary) victories with nothing more impressive than the local militia, and he'd won the favor of a number of the more conservative Councilors with his work policing the inside of Insomnia. 

Cor personally feels that Drautos' hand falls too harshly on the populace, dragging in violators or even suspected violators of the laws on fairly minimal provocation, but his law and order rhetoric and personal charisma are appealing to certain conservatives, while his heritage as an immigrant refugee himself makes more progressive Councilors listen more readily than they might have if it was just another Insomnia native saying the same old thing. 

In fairness, Cor is _also_ more inclined to listen to him on those grounds, being Insomnia-born himself and thereby not having the insight that might be offered by consulting an outsider. He's aware of that weakness, and he's tried to recruit Crownsguard from the outside where he can, but Drautos is easily the most highly accomplished non-Insomnian they have. Cor _should_ really make an effort to listen more to his suggestions, and to involve him in his planning and operations.

But damn if he just plain old _doesn't like_ the hyena ‘taur. 

It's not even a matter of safety – Drautos has been so thoroughly cleared by Insomnia's intelligence division that suspicion is essentially useless, given the fact that no one would believe Cor if he made any accusations, even if he were the sort of 'taur inclined to trade on baseless rumors, which he is not. It's honestly just a personal distaste, backed with no rational reason whatsoever. 

Cor has had years to train himself to be a proper professional who can work with people he dislikes and he's gotten quite good at it (whatever Clarus might say about his work in the Council where, at the very least, Drautos is _not_ ), so he's determined not to let it affect his relationship with the other 'taur. He's going to act to Drautos, sharing information and work and relying on his skills, just as efficiently and effectively as he would if he _did_ trust Drautos.

....soon. 

Really. 

He swears. 

Regardless, it's not like it matters this time around. Not knowing about their real target is unlikely to affect Drautos' command of the Crownsguard in Cor's absence, and Cor himself will be personally leading the Crownsguard delegation that will take the royal family to Galadh, so he's not too concerned about the omission. 

No, Cor's focus now must be entirely on the upcoming voyage. He's sent Riyad ahead to obtain a vessel – it has to be Riyad, with his extended family and knowledge of childcare, to keep up the ruse – under the pretense of making sure it's safe for a short pleasure cruise, should Regis' whim require it, and he's assigned whatever Crownsguard members know how to sail a ship or can quickly learn how to help crew it. 

Riyad finally called in and reported success – the ship he obtained would be more than capable of making the journey to Galadh – and that means it's time for the whole lumbering Procession to go: not just Regis and Clarus and Scientia and their families, plus a Crownsguard escort, but all the staff that are popularly seen as necessary, like cooks and servants and valets and chauffeurs and whatnot that Cor scarcely realized the largely self-sufficient Regis even _had_. 

Titan's horns, Cor's glad they'll be mostly left behind to enjoy the holiday at Insomnia Port. 

"You ready to go?" he asks Aulea. 

"I've been ready to go for three weeks," she says waspishly. "You know, I've never thought I'd be _nostalgic_ about working as a temporary sailor in exchange for passage on an illicit Niflheim steamer, but this whole ridiculous rigmarole is starting to do it."

"You ready?" Cor asks Regis, who looks up from his paperwork with a slight 'o' to his mouth, like he's totally forgotten what day, week, month and possibly even year it is. 

"He's ready," Clarus says, rubbing his eyes from his place at Regis' side. "Aulea has been in charge of preparations – do you know that she used to be patient about these things? I blame you and your sea voyage –"

Cor smirks and moves on. He doesn't bother asking Scientia if she's ready – she's been sending paralegals ahead of her to ensure the Insomnia Port branch of her law firm has an office ready for her use for ten days already.

Instead, he pokes his head into Luna's room. "Ready to go?" he asks Luna and the children, who appear to be dressing Noctis up in some sort of vile green dress with feathers, with a similarly colorful make-up palette. 

"Yes!" they all shout, except for Noctis, who tries to shout and trips over his own hem in the process. 

Cor doesn't want to know – first, because he thinks he might recognize that dress from the bottomless pits of Cyrella's closet, some sort of old bridesmaid business, and second, because he thinks they might be attempting to create some sort of ballgown version of Kenny Crow. 

He _really_ doesn't want to know. 

"Meet me at the elevator in twenty minutes," he says instead. "I'll take you to lunch while everyone else gets ready."

They all rush off.

"Oh, and Noctis?" Cor added, casually sticking out a paw to block Noctis' way.

"Yeah, Marshal?"

"Wash your face first. If you want to wear make-up to your next public event, you need to get your mother to do it for you, not your friends."

“Right!”

Cyrella, who Cor informed first and foremost, is rounding up what staff hasn't been sent ahead to go. She’s not joining them, much to her irritation: her stomach is already starting to round with the (possibly) unexpected pregnancy of her second-born. Clarus was over the moon about it and her doctor is pleased with her health, all but for the morning sickness that has made her throw up every time she so much as scents something containing more spice than plain salt.

Not exactly the right time to go to spice-loving Galadh, to say the least, and her doctor was also rather alarmed by the idea of letting a breeding ‘taur with severe morning sickness go on a sea voyage, no matter how short. 

So, instead, Cyrella is running herd on the staff – and, as a result, Cor has never had an easier time getting people moving. 

Really, he should consider finding an extremely tall, extremely irritated pregnant 'taur who hasn't eaten properly in a month to get people ready every time he travels - no one, not even the usual suspects, has made so much as a squeak of protest. If anything, they all seem to find the idea of getting far away from Cyrella's grasp to be extremely enticing...

They'll all be divided into their own cars, all the staff, forming a convoy for the royal family – of course, Cor has no intention of letting the entire royal family travel together for something this public, and he has (reluctantly) agreed with Clarus that Clarus can handle the protection of Regis and Aulea. With the assistance of some Crownsguard, of course.

Cor, in turn, will be driving the children, and he prefers to do that after they've finished their lunch. 

He picks a restaurant fairly far off from the Citadel in the direction of the Port to give them a nice head start, though. An hour or so in the car weaving through city streets with hungry children, and then the next few hours traveling through the countryside with the full, sated and hopefully sleepy versions...

Unfortunately, this excellent plan is derailed by the fact that everyone is extremely excited about their first visit to Galadh, and therefore not even a good meal can make them sleepy and quiet.

No, instead, Cor gets –

"Are we there yet?"

"No."

"I wanna play a car game!"

"Go ahead."

"Hey, look at that!"

"Get your head back into the car."

"Can we change the music?"

"Fine."

"Are we there yet?"

"Still no."

"What car game should we play?"

"You decide."

"Can we change the music?"

"Fine."

"Look! A coeurl!"

"That is not a coeurl. It's a bush. Please _all_ get your heads back inside the car."

"Are we there yet?"

"Not since the last time you asked."

"Cor, _I_ wanna play Animal-Plant-Black-and-White and _he_ wants to play I Spy -"

"Take turns."

"Is it much longer till we get there?"

"Changing the form of the question will not get you a different answer."

"Guys! Cactaur!"

"That's a cactus."

"Can we change the music?"

"No. The music remains the same forever now."

"Are we there –"

"The next person to ask if we are there yet, how long until we arrive, makes another comment about the music, or asks me to arbitrate anything will not receive a bedtime story from me tonight," Cor says pleasantly. 

Ah, blissful silence. 

For about five seconds. 

"I spy something – black."

"The Marshal's mood, perhaps?"

Snarky brats. 

Cor hides a smile and keeps driving. 

Of course, the sad drooping expressions are enough to make him relent and lift the prohibition on questions after another half-hour or so, but they manage, somehow, to make it to Insomnia Port without anyone (primarily Cor) committing infanticide. 

He loves all the boys dearly, he's even starting to be fond of Luna, but sometimes... 

Luckily, Insomnia Port dressed up for the Hydread puts a rapid end to the inane questioning. The normally quiet city – more of a town, compared to the Capital – is festooned in blue sashes and ringing with the tinkling sounds of wind chimes, hanging at every window. Children and even adults run through the streets wearing the traditional blue 'Hydra Head' cowls on their heads – caps in the shape of the Leviathan's draconic-seeming main head or of her watery "heads" of legend – laughing as they throw out blue-wrapped treats to all the passerby. 

The warmth of summer is more intense here; nothing like the islands of Galadh, renowned for their hot weather and hotter food, of course, but hot enough to make the children unhappy that they're wearing their formal wear, even if said formal wear is the summerweight version.

"We'll change after we arrive in Galadh," Cor promises. "You need to be impressive to the crowd for a bit, and then T-shirts for everyone."

Noctis sighs, already accustomed to public events, and Luna is nodding, too, but Gladio, Ignis and Prompto are not so easily appeased. Ignis, at least, has the self-discipline to stop complaining out loud, but Cor can see his pout. 

Time for a distraction. 

"If you look to your right, you'll see the sea-ships in the harbor," Cor says.

Everyone promptly crowds over there, complaints forgotten. 

"There's so _many_ of them," Luna marvels. "It's like the pictures of Altissia!"

"More, actually," Ignis says, nose pressed up against the window pane. "Altissia is the larger harbor, and serves as the port of call for more sea-ships, but due to the way it was built inside a lagoon, they prefer not to let sea-ships get too close. They make them dock some way out – you can't see them all together like this."

"Wooooow," Prompto says. 

"It's so _awesome_ ," Noctis agrees. 

"Marshal, what has more ships – Insomnia Port, or the Lucian Airstrip in Tempius?"

"The Port," Cor replies. "Virtually all of our remaining airships are government owned, and they're rarely used. The Port, in contrast, has warships and merchant ships and pleasure craft and much more."

" _Cool_."

"But Niflheim has more ships overall, doesn't it?" Ignis asks. 

"More airships, yes," Cor corrects. "Their airstrips are in vast, empty fields, with gigantic ships lying there in rows. But Niflheim started as a landlocked mountain realm, and to this day they far prefer airships to sea-ships." 

The children ooh and aah. 

“Look again now,” Cor suggests as he makes another turn, aiming for the harbor. “We’ll be passing a look-out point over the harbor-port – you should be able to see the boxes and boxes of the paper boats that will be released at midday on midsummer.”

More oohing and aahing ensues.

"I must say I'm excited to see Galadh," Luna says. "They're exclusively Lucian territory, but their community in Insomnia is quite small, I believe..?"

"They haven't been invaded - yet," Cor says dryly. "As a result, they have fewer refugees in Insomnia. We rather hope it stays that way."

"Oh. Yes, I suppose that's true."

"It's been years since I've had reason to go to the Galadh proper," Cor adds. "But I remember it fondly enough."

"You talk like you're _old_ ," Prompto complains. 

"According to you, I _am_ old."

"Nuh-uh!" Noctis exclaims. "Dad says you're like _half_ his age."

"I'm only ten years younger," Cor says firmly. Maybe a dozen. He's always taken great care never to calculate exactly. 

"Ten whole years?" Gladio marvels. "Wow. You're like a _baby_."

Cor sighs. 

It’s bad enough that people who don't recognize him on sight when he's out walking with the children like to compliment him on caring for his "younger brothers". Now his own _children_ are doing it...

The sailing time to Galadh might not be that considerable, but this is still going to be a _long_ trip.


	11. 11

Galadh is just as Clarus remembers it: a positive riot of color and sound. 

Each house is painted in startlingly bright tones with different colors for the windows and doors and sometimes - often, really - having twisty, almost flowery designs painted as further decor, and buskers and street-sellers line virtually every street to sing out their wares or play an instrument. Even the people follow the same theme: with the exception of those in black mourning, the clothing they wear is bright and cheerful and noisy, their hair worn long and woven through with beads and feathers and braids. Even the Hunters here find that greens and yellows work better to blend with the wild jungles deeper in the islands than the dark browns and blacks preferred on the mainland.

And there are birds _everywhere_. 

Colorful birds, loud birds, _talking_ birds, birds perched on rooftops and on trees growing in the center of the sidewalk and on parked cars and bikes and even some birds sitting casually on people's heads as they sit at the cafés, speaking as much with their gestures as with their words.

And that's not to mention the monkeys. Just casually there, sitting on garbage cans and chowing down the way raccoons or squirrels do on the mainland, or at least did before the Starscourge started to reduce their numbers and turn them into mutated creatures out of nightmare. 

Ah, Galadh. Nowhere quite like it, in Clarus’ view. 

Interestingly, despite Galahd's long history as undisputed Lucian territory, the population here tends towards canidaetaur rather than felidaetaur, with inlanders generally being woodland creatures, like wolves and foxes, while beachsiders are often creatures that enjoy water, like bears and beavers and jaguars - though of course the population here, like everywhere else in Lucis, is growing increasingly mixed and diverse over time. 

And, of course, let Clarus not forget to mention the _food_ – the heavy scent of spice in the air, peppers and chilis and other mysterious spices that are hot enough to burn even people from Leide, who pride themselves on their spicy peppers, right alongside the stalls filled to the brim with freshly-caught fish or unusual fruit brought down from the jungles. 

Clarus must admit that he enjoys Galahd's determined fondness of food and their resulting appreciation for heavier figures. He knows the tendency probably stems from the famines that still sporadically strike the islands whenever more severe hurricanes than the usual yearly fare batter them, but – as a tiger with, shall we say, not as much time to exercise as much as he probably should – he still appreciates it. 

Oh, yes, and there’s the hurricanes. 

Can't forget those.

That is, of course, the part of Galadh that Clarus _doesn’t_ like, particularly as midsummer marks the onset of the rainy season, or more accurately the rain-and-storm season: Leviathan’s blessing, Ramuh’s curse, as the islanders liked to joke. 

Galadh, wild child of the sea and storm. 

Poetic, really. 

At least their passage here was pretty quiet, thanks be to Leviathan – the Tidemother is generally blissfully calm for the period right around midsummer, her favorite day of the year – and they arrive without any large fanfare, just as planned. 

The poor Harbormaster who came to collect their papers had something of a bad moment when he saw his King and Queen holding the paperwork with polite smiles that only barely covered how amusing they found this whole situation. It was rather funny, but, more importantly, it allowed them to disembark with remarkable swiftness and without all the ridiculous pomp that usually accompanies pre-announced royal visits - speeches and surprise presentations by local choirs and bands and whatnot. Always extremely charming, always extremely irritating to a traveler who just came rather a long way and just wants to take a nap. 

Of course, no matter how quickly they managed their arrival, there still managed to be just enough time for Regis to be swamped by the (very surprised) local Galahdian politicos, but Regis is an old hand at these sort of events: he and Aulea are very effectively glad-handing them with the goal of putting them off their scent and reassuring them that there's no reason to be concerned. By all rights, Clarus ought to be helping with that, but instead he’s with Scientia, watching the children run around acquainting themselves with the harbor town – something he prefers by far.

The children, at least, are having a positive _blast_.

They're all keeping quite busy – Gladio looking through the stalls selling bright clothing and beads and jewelry made of shells, Ignis staring enraptured as one of the street vendors efficiently butchers and then sizzles up a giant shrimp in a medley of spices, Noctis and Prompto leaping over each other and rolling around in the sand of the beach...even Luna seems to have escaped her usual reticence, looking around her with a broad smile.

"Hey, pretty lady!" a local girl around Luna's age, holding a basket of brightly colored flowers with more flowers woven into her hair like a crown, calls out to her. "Buy a flower for your hair?"

Luna turns to look. "Oh, they're _lovely_!" she exclaims, clapping her hands together and trotting over to look closer.

The local girl – a maned fox 'taur, if Clarus is getting his more obscure species right – gapes at her. "Oh, _wow_ ," she says. "You've got the daintiest hooves I've ever seen."

Luna blushes. 

Clarus is reminded, suddenly, of the first time Luna met Cindy, back in Hammerhead – her eyes going as wide as saucers and her cheeks going pink as the normally precociously self-possessed girl stuttered over a basic introduction – and he smiles. A pity, really, that the Glaciad is so far away at the tail end of winter – it looks like Luna will have her hands full of people she might want to ask to join her for that romantic festival's traditional joint cup of hot cocoa. 

"Thank you," Luna is saying. "I love your legs, too – they're so long and graceful –"

"Oh, you don't have to say that –"

"No, really!"

Now _both_ girls are blushing. Clarus pretends to inspect a vase, enjoying the little childhood romance unfolding in front of him – it's like something out of _A Springtime's Stroll_ , the paperback romance novel he's currently reading. Cyrella thinks he's ridiculous for enjoying them, but Gladio certainly enjoys them as well when Clarus reads them aloud to him – he’s currently _very_ invested in the resolution of the ongoing love quadrangle...

"Would you like a flower, then?" the girl blurts out, clearly desperate to get back onto some sort of even footing. "For your hair?"

"Oh, yes, I'd love one," and here Luna falters and glances down at the ground, "but I’m afraid I don't know how to put them in my hair."

"Oh," the local girl says. "Well – if you like – I can show you..?"

_Oh, smooth, smooth!_ Clarus thinks admiringly. _Well done, Luna!_

(He is _particularly_ amused by the idea that Lady Lunafreya, born amongst the beautiful blue sylleblossoms of Tenebrae, might find _anything_ to do with flowers difficult.)

"I couldn't possibly bother you while you're at work –"

"No, no, I was just about to go out on break – my name's Crowe, by the way –"

"And I'm Luna. Do you mind if we go to the shade somewhere? It's only that I'm not used to it being so bright – it's my first visit to Galadh –"

"No wonder, what with you being so pale. Sure, come with me – you know, if this is your first visit here, I could show you to a nice ice cream parlor – the best one on the islands - my parents run it, it's just down the block –"

Luna glances briefly at Clarus, who nods his approval. "If it's just down the block, I don't see the issue. Keep your phone on," he advises. "I'll tell Scientia." 

The two girls beam and run off.

Clarus is barely able to restrain himself from laughing at how efficiently Luna secured herself a date, even though he suspects that neither girl is entirely certain of what it is – after all, Crowe can't be much older than twelve to Luna's eleven. Ah, kitten love! Or puppy love, in little Crowe's case, and fawn love, in Luna's. 

Oh, he wishes that Cyrella was here for him to share the joke! If only that damn doctor hadn't absolutely forbidden her from sea travel...

Ah, well. 

He goes over to Scientia, who has her nose buried in a book that's half the size of his torso. "Luna –" he starts.

"Has run off with that Crowe girl to the ice cream shop, yes, I overheard," Scientia says, not looking up from her book. "They'll be back shortly – I saw it as we passed earlier; there's no room in there for them to sit. We should plan our next steps after that."

"Technically, the Hydread isn't until tomorrow, on midsummer itself; it’s only the Eve," Clarus offers. Luckily, he's already gotten used to the way Scientia's mind is already five steps ahead of everyone else's – he's learned to take it as a compliment that she doesn’t feel the need to explain herself to him. When she's in court, or dealing with people she thinks are slow, she suddenly becomes remarkably clear and straightforward and just a touch judgmental. It's a bit frightening, not least of all because Ignis does the same thing – and Clarus suspects that Gladio and the other boys are starting to pick up on it. They’re going to be terrors, each and every one of them. "We could spend the day doing tourist things, instead."

"What a marvelous idea," Regis says, limping up towards Clarus – no worse than usual, Clarus is pleased to note. He's managed to lose his Galahdian escort, probably by fobbing them off by promising to go to some fancy dinner later, and leaving it in their hands to prepare something suitable to his rank. "I don't think I've ever gone tourist-ing. What's there to do?"

"There _are_ several famous landmarks," Scientia says dryly. 

"No, thanks," Aulea says, following Regis closely. "Those we'll see by necessity when they want Regis – or I – or Noctis – to appear at all of them to wave at the local populace."

"Probably true," Clarus agrees ruefully. The price of being royalty...

"We could go to the beach and sun ourselves," Cor suggests. He looks rather fond of the idea. He would be, the overgrown kitten. 

"Beach!" Noctis shouts. "We want beach!"

"Yeah! Beach!" Prompto joins in.

"No, thank you," Ignis says, wrinkling his nose fastidiously. "I don't want sand in my fur, thanks."

"The sand's somewhat inevitable everywhere you go in the beachside," the girl from earlier, Crowe, says. She and Luna have indeed returned, holding ice creams in one hand and holding _each other's_ hands with the other.

Clarus is going to die of cuteness overload, he just knows it. 

"Sorry, kid," she says apologetically to Ignis. She clearly hasn’t recognized any of them, which clearly pleases Regus immensely. It won’t last, of course, but it is nice to go a little incognito for a change, and Regis is clearly relishing every moment of it. “It really does get everywhere.”

"Is there anywhere we can go that _won't_ have sand, then?" Ignis asks with a sigh. "I assume going inland would be too burdensome..?"

"Sadly, yes," Aulea says. "We need to be here tomorrow for the Hydread ceremony. Besides, I rather like the sound of sand."

"Well, there's always the caves," Crowe offers hesitantly, Luna squeezing her hand supportively.

"The caves?" Regis asks.

"Oh, they're _lovely_ ," Crowe says effusively. "They're technically inland, but they're right by the waterside, not far at all. No one ever goes to them in the summer, since they're lots prettier in the winter, but you can't come to Galahd and _not_ see the Caves of Wind and Wave."

"Are those the ones with the cave paintings?" Scientia asks, even putting down her book – a major achievement. "I've heard good things."

"That's where the old ceremonies to raise Leviathan used to be held," Luna murmurs, leading the adults to glance at each other meaningfully. 

"I could do caves," Gladio says, glancing at Ignis. "Caves are cool. They're spooky."

"I don't want to do spooky, though," Noctis pouts. "I want to go to the beach."

"Well, how about we split up?" Regis offers, smiling. Clarus likes the look on him: he looks years younger, and lighter. He's needed a vacation for far too long. This isn't a real vacation of course – they're here for the Covenant with Leviathan – but it's just close enough to one for it to already have good effects. "I'm rather interested in these caves myself – Aulea, Cor, why don't you take Noctis and Prompto to the beach, while the rest of us go look at these caves?"

"Really, no one goes in the summer," Crowe says hastily, clearly embarrassed now that they're taking her up on her suggestion. "The tides are high, you know – you can't really get the full impact of it –"

"The paintings are still supposed to be visible, even in the summer," Scientia says crisply. "We'll take our chances, I think. Will you show us the way to go?"

People do not generally say no when Scientia asks something of them. Crowe does not do so now. 

Clarus arches an eyebrow at Regis. He knows his old friend well enough: this little splitting up isn't really about preferring the caves to the beach. It's about Luna's statement – that this might be where they need to go for the Covenant – and the fact that Regis wants to check it out first before letting Noctis anywhere near. 

Regis smiles back, utterly unashamed of being seen through. 

"Fine," Cor says. "You take three-fourths of the guard."

"What? No. Half, at most. Someone needs to watch over Noctis."

"Two-thirds. _I’m_ watching over Noctis."

" _Fine_."

"Guard?" Crowe echoes with a frown. 

"Don't worry about it," Luna says with a bright smile. "Can you show us the way?"

"Sure," Crowe says, smiling helplessly back, utterly distracted. "Come with me."

"Have fun at your beach," Clarus tells Cor with a grin. Cor rolls his eyes back.

Cor and Aulea head off towards the beach with Noctis and Prompto, while Regis, Clarus, and Scientia take Gladio and Ignis and follow Crowe, with Luna in tow close beside her, on a much less crowded trail inland. Their Crownsguard escort drifts along with them, quiet and unobtrusive. 

It's a pleasant walk – somewhat steep, but nothing they can't handle, especially at the slow strolling pace they've adopted – for the first half-hour.

Then they discover that the main road to the caves is apparently closed for repair.

"Damn," Regis says mildly, frowning at the roadblock with its large and very unhelpful sign. "Guess we'll have to go back."

"Nah," Crowe says dismissively. "We can go in the other end, if you don't mind walking single file."

"We don't," Scientia says. "Other end?"

"Yeah," Crowe says. "It's not really an official entrance, but all the local kids go through that way. Cuts down on the line. _And_ you end up on the Oracle's platform, the ancient one, which is pretty cool."

Clarus frowns. He's not sure this is a good idea –

"Excellent," Regis says. "Let's go."

Clarus sighs faintly. The vacation business is clearly going to Regis' head. 

Still, Crowe is starting to stride down a much smaller dirt path and Regis is following, not to mention Ignis leaping along the rocky road like – well, like an excited goat kid. So there's clearly no choice but to go onwards.

It's another half-hour, this time padding along increasingly small and shabby roads before they get to the cave entrance. Still, that's more due to their slow pace – Gladio and Ignis keep dashing off to look at flowers or plants or even small animals – than the distance, even if the last portion of the descent towards the cave is, in fact, such a narrow path that going down single-file is the only way to proceed. 

Crowe seems to have belatedly realized that she's guiding around some moderately important people (it was probably the Crownsguard's presence becoming increasingly less subtle as they left town and trees behind and forcing them to go out in the open despite their best attempts to remain subtle) and has been spending the last few minutes attempting to downplay the loveliness of the caves she spent the first half of the trip boasting about. 

"– really, it's _summer_ , so you won't get the full effect, like I said," she's saying, somewhat desperately. "The light's all wrong, you know, and the water level's pretty high, so you don't really get a sense of scale – there's a reason people don't ever come here in the summer –"

"I'm sure it'll be fine," Luna says, not for the first time.

"I mean, the cave paintings, they're there, sure, but we're coming in at the weird end, you know, since the other road broke down, so I don't know exactly how many we'll be able to see –"

"I'm sure it will be fine," Scientia says sternly. 

Crowe shuts her mouth with a small peep. 

Clarus and Regis share amused looks. It's rather nice not being the intimidating one of the group, for once. 

Unfortunately, Crowe's nervousness is such that even Scientia's implacable force of will can only stop her for a while. "It's just that I wanted to say it up front," she murmurs as she pushes aside the vines growing on the cave wall to reveal a battered old door so well hidden that even the Crownsguard that preceded her couldn't find it, and stepping straight though before they could stop her and insist that they go first, "so that you won't be disappointed when...wait, hold up, what in Leviathan's name is –?"

Clarus, who slipped in second – he's the King's Shield, he doesn't need a Crownsguard escort to go gawk at some cave walls – puts his hand firmly over Crowe's mouth. 

"Say nothing," he murmurs into her ear, his eyes fixed at the sight over her shoulder, even as the rest of their party filters in through the door.

The caves are lovely – as huge as promised, with the famous blue-and-green sheen – but Clarus has no time for that.

The caves which no one visits during the summer, the caves with the main road to them marked as being under repair –

The caves are _not_ empty.

"What is that?" Scientia asks, keeping her voice as low as possible. She's picked up Ignis and covered his mouth with her hand; Gladio stands by her side, looking with increasing alarm at the grave-faced adults around him, but luckily he's had enough training to know that it’s time to go quiet.

"That," Regis says grimly, his voice low, "is a Niflheim airship."

"No," Clarus corrects quietly, looking at the gigantic ships wrought in black metal, with glowing red windows – it's not one ship; it's two, no, _three_ massive airships, each one of them a fleet ship capable of holding multiple attack ships filled with MT soldiers or the carrier ships which Niflheim traditionally fills with daemons to help terrify the local populace after the initial conquest, and next to those behemoth ships there are also a number of smaller sea-ships equipped with tows designed to pull the airships into and out of the caves. "That is an invasion force."

Crowe starts struggling in shock for a moment, but then it fades and Clarus feels comfortable releasing her. "Invasion," she whispers, pasty-faced with terror. "Of _Galahd_? But..."

She trails off.

Clarus knows what she meant to say. Galahd's long history as undisputed Lucian territory is primarily for two reasons: one, sea-averse Niflheim wasn't particularly interested in a territory that dealt with yearly hurricanes that ranged unpredictably from 'problematic' to 'devastating', and two –

Two, whether they came by air or by sea, the isolated Galahd would see them coming.

But that didn't apply if they were _already here_. 

They must have started smuggling the ships here piece-by-piece the very second the tourist season ended and built them up in Galadh itself.

"What are the forces available on Galahd?" Regis asks, quietly but forcefully – the relaxed father on vacation gone and replaced by the King of Lucis. The ring on his finger is glowing faintly, only noticeable because of the gloomy darkness of the caves. 

"Not enough, your Majesty," Clarus answers, knowing what Regis really wants to know. "Not to resist a force of this size. The Galahd Coast Guard is formidable, but it will be utterly overwhelmed. We could call up reinforcements from Insomnia Port, but their warships will take hours to equip, and then more to get here – particularly since they'll need to keep some back to protect the Port itself."

"Still, a few hours will surely be enough –" Scientia starts.

Clarus cuts her off with a firm shake of his head. "They were probably originally planning on attacking during the notoriously calm weather of the Hydread tomorrow," he says, his sharp eyes fixed on a platform on one of the airships furthest away from them and closest to the supposedly "closed" main road to the caves. He recognizes one of the figures there, one of the Burgomasters of the port town in which they landed. He was part of the party greeting Regis and Aulea with vaguely panicked expressions earlier, except evidently his panic wasn't because he need to find a way to host the royal family in a suitable manner. "It would've been a massacre, all those people unarmed and celebrating, Insomnia Port all cluttered up with the paper ships for the holiday and slow to respond...if they kept to that original schedule, we’d be able to summon help in time.”

“You don’t think they will?”

“No. They weren't expecting the King of Lucis to arrive with a squadron of Crownsguard, and it's thrown off all their plans, since they don’t know _why_ we came. Regardless, the reason doesn’t really matter: whether we’ve come to try to fight back against them, or whether it’s an accident that gives them an opportunity to strike at the royal family and shatter Lucian morale, they know they need to move quickly, before back-up arrives. They'll be attacking now, instead."

Even as he watches, the first of the great airships creakily begins to cast off, the ropes and chains holding it in place by the dock starting to fall loose, one by one.

"My parents –" Crowe croaks. 

"Scientia," Regis says, taking control. There's that tone in his voice, the one that draws the eye irresistibly towards him - that deep, almost-growl that precedes the roar of the lion. There can be no doubt in anyone's mind, now, that the King of Lucis is speaking. "I need you to take the children back up the path as quickly and quietly as possible. When you get back to an area with cell service, immediately inform my wife and Cor of what is happening, then alert Insomnia Port. The local town must be evacuated at once, with their Coast Guard and every able-bodied member of the militia – or who's willing to try to fight – told to expect invasion. The Crownsguard will go with you to assist with preparations."

He turns to Crowe. "Do not despair. This is Galahd, and you, its children, are born of the sea and storm," he says to her, and her back goes straight, her head lifting higher under his regard. "You will not fall so easily before Niflheim's might, and I swear to you that Lucis will not stand aside and let it happen. Are your people trained in civilian evacuations?"

"Oh, yes," Crowe says eagerly. "We're all trained – but the alarm is only meant to go off in the event of an unexpected tsunami –"

"You will go at once to activate that alarm," he says. "You may do so on my authority. Know that Insomnia Port will send what reinforcements it can as soon as it can."

"Will – do you think we’ll be able to hold them off, your Majesty?" she asks. 

He puts his hand on her shoulder and looks her in the eye. "We will fight to defend your country," Regis Lucis Caelum vows, and no one who looked at him would doubt that he meant it with every fiber of his being. "Whatever we can do to ensure that Galahd does not fall, we will do. But even should it fall in the end, know that Niflheim will pay for the privilege in a river of blood."

Crowe's eyes are shining. If she survives, Clarus would wager that Cor will have another new recruit for the Crownsguard in a handful of years. She nods and goes without another word.

Scientia lingers a moment longer after Crowe has left running at full speed. "Your Majesty," she says.

Regis looks at her. 

"There is – another thing," she says, uncharacteristically hesitant. "That we could do. Perhaps. To make the odds a little less – overwhelming."

"At this point, all suggestions are very welcome," Clarus says wryly. "We're facing a force that's likely four times the size of the existing military power on this island, assuming Niflheim hasn't changed their typical approach to invasion. Every little bit might help."

"More than a little bit," Scientia says, and her habitual impassive calm has settled over her once more – her hesitation before was merely uncertainty as to the extent of their need, Clarus realizes, and now that he has confirmed the direness of the situation, she has put aside all doubt. "Let me remind you that we stand now at the Oracle's platform, where once, long ago, they called upon the sleeping Leviathan."

They all stare at her, Clarus and Regis and even the head of the Crownsguard escorting them, a sturdy 'taur named Riyad. Her meaning is quite clear. 

Scientia turns to Luna, who has very nearly been her adopted daughter this last year and who she loves dearly, and yet her voice is calm and certain when she asks, "Can you do it?"

Luna swallows, and nods. "If I had the Trident –"

"The royal Armiger," Clarus says, looking at Regis. "It's only a shadow of the real Trident, of course; the real one is in Sylvia's care, but it might do the trick regardless. And if Leviathan rises –"

"Then the raging sea will come with her," Regis finishes. The Tidemother rather famously does not enjoy having her slumber disturbed. "I see the mission I sent Crowe on was more accurate than I realized - there may indeed yet be a tsunami here today."

Luna stands up straight – only eleven years old, dressed in a white frock selected more to be appropriate for the beach than for formal ceremonies, but with steel in her eyes. Sylvia's steel, but Scientia's, too. "I will do it," she says. Her voice brooks no disagreement – not any of theirs, nor even of Leviathan herself. "With or without the true Trident. I will summon Leviathan."

"You will, and you will do it well," Scientia says, and Luna's back, somehow, goes even straighter with pride. "Two instructions: do not die, and return safely to us when you are done. Come along, Ignis, Gladio."

"But –" Gladio starts to protest, looking at Clarus. "Dad –"

"I need you to go, Gladio," Clarus says firmly, fixing the image of his son in his mind. He prays this will not be the last time they see each other alive, but he knows all too well the risks of war. He’s always known. "I am needed here, to guard my King and Luna, but I need you to go to the town to help with the evacuation, to help save lives. You are an Amicitia, my son: a Shield. This is what we do. Go now."

Gladio's lower lip is trembling, but he nods firmly. This time, when Scientia begins to move, he goes with her without complaint. 

Clarus watches them until they disappear up along the face of the cliff, then turns back to his King – and his Oracle. 

"Let us begin," Regis says, and summons the Armiger.

* * *

Cor ends the call on his cell phone. 

Aulea, standing beside him and listening to Scientia's report from the second he realized what it was, looks grim. "What do we do now?" she asks, her eyes fixed on the surf where Noctis and Prompto are still leaping over each other, splashing and rolling in the wet sand like the excitable kittens (well, kitten and puppy) that they've barely outgrown being. 

"Scientia reports that Crowe has gone up ahead, so the evacuation alarm should sound any minute now," Cor says. "Everyone will go inland, I assume; we'll join them. Once I see you and the children are safe, I will go help with the resistance efforts." 

"There's nothing else..?"

"The priority is keeping Noctis and Prompto safe," Cor says firmly. He knows he should add that Noctis' safety is especially important now, given the Prophecy, but he can't bring himself to do so – it's true, of course, but he can't voice anything that would suggest that if Aulea finds herself in a terrible position of being only able to rescue one child, she ought to pick her own, the Chosen King, future savior of the world, instead of...

Instead of his own. 

Aulea puts a hand on his shoulder. She understands, without words, what he means. "I will look after them both," she promises, grabbing her bag and tossing him the sword he brought, because he always has at least one sword even for supposedly innocent trips to the beach. And to think Clarus was teasing him for being paranoid! “Remember, should the worst come to worst, I can in times of dire need call on Regis' shadow Armiger, too, and I'm pretty handy with that bow."

"You always were the cleverest," Cor tells her, but he's unable to laugh at his own joke, so it comes out sincere. "Come on, let's get them."

Neither Noctis nor Prompto particularly wants to stop playing, but one look at the faces of their guardians puts an end to their complaints. 

The alarm begins to ring.

Alarms, plural, would be more accurate – blaring sounds start coming from all directions, and flags colored red suddenly unfurling from the tops of all the highest buildings.

"Tsunami!" someone shouts.

"On the _Hydread_?" someone else exclaims disbelievingly. 

But, disbelief of no disbelief, they all start moving inland. The people of Galahd do not play games with the sea, Cor is pleased to see.

The noise of all the beachgoers abandoning their bags and towels and picnic baskets and trudging up towards the town, and the safer high ground of the inland beyond, is very nearly deafening, but Cor's ears have been trained since childhood to hear and identify sounds even through the roar of the battlefield. That talent has saved his life more than once.

He identifies such a sound now.

"Aulea, stop," he orders, and she does, clutching both children's hands in hers and pulling them in closer as Cor draws his sword, turning just in time to deflect the dagger thrown at their backs. 

They look like regular Galahdians, out for a day on the beach – loose clothing, one of them even shirtless – but they move like soldiers, and there are weapons in their hands, pulled out of baskets and sun-umbrella poles. 

Niflheim trained, Cor determines, even as he darts forward to attack those nearest to him. If Scientia's report of Clarus' prediction of an attack expected tomorrow is right, and he has no reason to doubt it, these people would have been mingling with the crowd for days to ensure that they looked familiar to the others, safe, and then they would call out for people to follow them, and people would have done so – and only once they had led them somewhere out of sight would the swords and the guns come out –

They're good, these infiltrators. They have to be to do their jobs – to go alone into enemy territory to murder panicked and unarmed civilians who might try to fight back is not a job for the weak or the untrained – but, at the same time, they're infiltrators. They're disposable; they have to be, to be sent ahead into such danger.

They're not _that_ good. 

Cor kills the first three before they've taken another step, and the next two after that before they've even fully finished drawing their weapons. 

But there are more still coming. 

Many more.

Cor lifts his sword in a ready stance, his mind calm and clear. Niflheim’s forces have identified them, then; this many infiltrators all blowing their covers, all at once, can mean nothing else. They have been given new orders – to get these particular targets – that supersede all others.

Good. 

That means none of them will be left to murder innocent civilians in the retreat. 

Aulea has put Noctis and Prompto behind her, producing a gun from her beach-bag.

Cor’s trained on sand before, and he doesn’t let the uncertain surface slow him down, even as the ‘taurs rushing him trip and fall as they try to pounce. He ducks and darts between them, rearing back on his hind legs to rip at their bodies with his forelegs while he strikes at them with the sword in his hands. The daggers he rips free from their hands he throws back at the ones with guns, and he can hear Aulea start firing at them as well. 

The crowd has started to run away from them now, leaving them alone on the beach – his Crownsguard are here, Basiana and Serio and Maero and Tristus and a bare handful more, and on his orders they form a protective ring around Aulea and the children – but the infiltrators are doing a good job separating them from the crowd.

And the sea has started churning. 

“Leviathan is rising!” Aulea shouts, jerking her head towards the sea – it very effectively distracts the ‘taur Cor is fighting now, and Cor uses the opportunity to strike him down before glancing at the ocean. 

The waves are coming hard now, large and choppy and frothing white at the tops as if a hurricane is approaching, and yet Cor is standing on the beach: there is no wind to explain the winds, and only a scattering of clouds in the sky. 

Leviathan is, indeed, rising. 

“MTs!” Maero bellows. “From above!”

Not good. Cor leaps ahead, cutting down two more infiltrators – he’s gotten most of them, now – but he sees what Maero saw: a drop ship, buzzing in from above. It’s been sent ahead from the fleet ship Scientia had reported seeing undock itself, no doubt in response to the infiltrators’ report that the Queen and Prince appeared to be (relatively) unprotected. 

Cor glances towards to the town. The nearest Galahdian Coast Guard outpost – a lone station – has seen the oncoming threat, and the poor lone ‘taur that was manning it is screaming on his radios, shouting out orders and gesturing towards their little group, but back-up will clearly be some time in coming. 

He gestures to Basiana and Serio – _stay back, watch them_ – gestures for Maero and Tristus to back him, and he charges straight into the MTs as they land on the sand. 

This is much harder – the infiltrators were more agile on the sand, having been trained for it, but the MTs are wearing full armor, and their unnaturally jerky movements sometimes make them harder to predict than standard fighters. 

Niflheim MTs, soulless robots with armored metallic bodies shaped like a standard hound ‘taur, like machines but with the intelligence and reaction times of regular ‘taurs behind those empty glowing red eyes – Cor knows, from the information that he obtained from Justina’s laboratory, the monstrous way in which they are made, but it doesn’t matter to him now. It _can’t_ matter now. 

Now, all that matters is the fighting.

Cor has always known that one day he would come across a battle he would lose, and this one isn’t looking great. But he will _not_ let them have Prompto or Noctis, even if it costs him his own life. 

One MT – a gigantic axe-wielder – manages to get him with a nasty backhanded swing, forgoing the sharp side of the axe in favor of just walloping Cor on the side of the head, knocking him off his paws, but just as he’s lifting the axe to bring the sharp end down at Cor – Cor struggling to lift his sword in an attempt to at least deflect the blow – 

The MT’s head gets blown off with a massive blast. 

That’s not Aulea – she only has a pea-shooter, really – and none of his Crownsguard have a gun that powerful. 

The Coast Guard...?

No. 

There are ‘taurs charging _out of the water_ , guns in their hands – two otters, a capybara holding the rifle that probably saved Cor's life, and even a frankly massive hippopotamus ‘taur dual wielding two-handed bastard swords, one in each hand. They’re not dressed like Coast Guard – in fact, Cor’s never seen the slick wet fabric they’re wearing before, something like waterproof neoprene that shimmers wet in the light. 

“Queen Mother!” the capybara ‘taur calls out. “Bring the Chosen King here; we can keep him safe!”

Aulea starts, badly, and one of her shots goes wide. 

Cor understands her concern – no one should know that Noctis is the Chosen King of Prophecy, because they haven’t _told_ anyone – but he can see more drop ships in the distance, the gigantic fleet ship not far behind, and he doesn’t think they have a choice about who to trust right now.

He gestures to his Crownsguard – _keep formation and advance_ – and calls to her, “Bring the children, Aulea! Quickly!”

She nods, putting her gun away, and snatches up both crying children from where they were hiding behind her. 

They’re only _six_.

Cor’s eyes narrow in a burst of fury, and he takes advantage of the MTs trying to cope with this unexpected threat from an unexpected angle to throw a lightning bomb at them. He’s standing close enough to it that his fur goes on end, but the vast majority of them go down all at once, and between him, his Crownsguard and the otters from the sea, they’re able to kill the rest of them quickly. 

“Quickly,” one of the otters says, glancing back at the ocean with concern. “The bubble won’t last that long at the surface.”

Cor doesn’t understand, but he runs towards the ocean, his Crownsguard at his heels, because Aulea is nearly there, coming up to the hippopotamus. 

“Into the surf,” the hippopotamus ‘taur is bellowing. She’s a massive woman, with deep black skin and tight corkscrew curls that are already defying gravity despite the thrashing waves of water all around them. “Now!”

They follow her into the raging tide. 

Prompto is crying, Cor can _hear_ him, crying and howling; Noctis is wailing, a high hollow shriek; Aulea is shouting, desperate for answers; the waves are crashing around them, louder and louder and –

They all tumble forward into what Cor can only describe as - well, as a giant bubble. 

The water is held back by the clear almost plastic-y sides of the bubble and the roar of the waves is muted. Perhaps most importantly, they seem to be breathing without difficulty. The capybara is at the front (Cor thinks) of the bubble, doing something on some sort of keypad, and the bubble begins to move forward, first simply away from the beach in a straight line and then, once they’ve gotten past the shallower waters of the beach, starting to turn down to head deeper into the waters.

“Woooooow,” Prompto – always inclined to look at the bright side of life – says, his tears drying up. He elbows Noctis. “Look, Noct! Fish!”

There are indeed many brightly-colored tropical fish around them.

“You should also look at the coral reef,” the hippopotamus ‘taur suggests kindly. “We’ll be passing that soon.”

Noctis sniffs a little, still not fully recovered. “Coral reef? I think Iggy was talking about that on the boat ride over…”

“Yeah, he was,” Prompto says. “He had that book – with all the colors! When will we see the reef, Ms. – uh, sorry, what’s your name?”

“I am Dido,” the hippopotamus ‘taur says. “The capybara is Bomilcar; the otters are Mago and Minthos.”

“My name’s Prompto Argentum,” Prompto says proudly. “That’s Cor Leonis – he’s my Cor – and this here’s Noct and that’s his mom, Aulea. And then there’s Basiana an’ Tristus an’ Maero an’ Serio an’ –”

“What sort of ship is this?” Basiana interrupts to ask, looking around. She hasn’t put her weapon down: good. They might be trusting these 'taurs, but there's a limit to any amount of trust. “I’ve never seen anything like this before – where did you get this tech?”

Aulea has different concerns. “Why did you call –” She hesitates a moment, since the other Crownsguard members are not necessarily in on the secret yet. “Why did you call Noctis what you called him?”

“Because he is, of course,” the capybara ‘taur – Bomilcar – says, relinquishing control of the bubble to one of the otters in a practiced hand-off. “We were sent by our King to yours, so as to offer our aid when you approach the Hydrean for the Contract. We are the closest land to the Tidemother’s domain, after all.”

“Your King?” Cor echoes, eyebrows arching. As far as he knows, there’s only one King – that of Lucis – while Niflheim has an Emperor, Tenebrae an Oracle, and Accordo a Secretary. 

“Oh, yes,” Bomilcar says. “King Hasdrubal the Third – the King of Atlantioi.”


	12. 12

“I don’t like this,” Iggy whispers to Gladio, who squeezes his hand. 

“It’ll be okay,” Gladio assures him. He’s not entirely sure that’s correct, but he’s going to say it anyway. Iggy’s mom is helping direct the efforts to evacuate civilians and set up a resistance force – the Niflheim ships have started arriving in full force now, dropping bombs and MT soldiers and everything, and the Captain of the Coast Guard, a red fox ‘taur named Desidero, recruited her immediately when he saw her ordering people around with her usual bossy calm.

Six, Gladio loves the Scientias. He can’t think of a better family to be going through a crisis with, except of course his own. 

But his dad told him he needs to be strong and good and save lives because he needs to be a proper Amicitia Shield, and he’s gonna be. 

Well, as soon as he gets a _chance_ , anyway.

He glances at Iggy’s mom, who is now entirely preoccupied arguing over a map with Desidero and his lieutenants – they seem to be discussing where to move the few anti-aircraft guns they have, or at least the cannons they had for sea warfare that they’re repurposing for anti-aircraft uses. That’s keeping her pretty busy, which is why she’d asked Desidero’s wife and husband to watch over them because she was busy and the Crownsguard was busy and they weren't particularly martial themselves.

Ielena and Tomaz are very nice, but they’re also trying to watch a whole bunch of other kids at the same time, so they're not really paying attention. 

Yes, now would be a good time.

Gladio tugs on Iggy’s hand and Iggy turns to look at him.

“I’m gonna go out and see who I can help,” Gladio whispers to him.

“That’s a _terrible idea_ and you _shouldn’t do it_ ,” Iggy hisses back.

“I’m a _Shield_ ,” Gladio reminds him. “My dad told me to save some lives, remember? I’ve _gotta_!”

Iggy hesitates. 

“C’mon,” Gladio begs. “We can just go and check out how it’s going outside – we’re nowhere near any of the main fighting – if there’s nothing to do, we’ll come right back in –”

“Oh, _okay_ ,” Iggy gives in, and Gladio does a little leap of joy, then starts tugging Iggy towards the door before he changes his mind.

The street outside is filled with smoke and shouting. 

Gladio leads the way towards where the most noise is coming from, sticking close to the wall with Iggy right behind him; he’s sure he’ll find people to help there. He clutches at his little sword – more of a large knife, which Cor called a ‘machete’ when he gave it to Gladio for his eighth birthday and which Gladio’s Dad called ‘more trouble than it’s worth’, but which is the best he’s got right now. He can wield bigger swords – he has in the training grounds – but he doesn’t have any of those with him now. 

There’s a lot of people running around – some Crownsguard that Gladio recognizes, moving from one place to another, leading additional militia to shore up more defensive locations – some civilians that are still evacuating –

Gladio notices some movement down one of the alleys. At the very far end, there’s this one guy, a big bear ‘taur, who’s gotten stuck under a half-collapsed building, and a wolf ‘taur wearing a Crownsguard trainee shirt is frantically trying to help tug him out. 

And behind the wolf ‘taur, right in his blind spot, there’s an MT sneaking up on him.

_No!_

Gladio charges, leaving Iggy behind, and he leaps for the wall, using it to push himself off of and bringing the machete down on the MT’s neck, just like he would’ve if it was a practice doll back in the training grounds at home. 

The wolf ‘taur spins around with a shout of surprise – the MT staggers back – 

Gladio lands on the ground and swings for the MT’s knee.

The MT’s joint crackles when Gladio hits it, so he hits it again, and the MT falls over backwards; Gladio rushes forward and tries to stab it in the chest, but the MT swings its sword at him, though luckily it does it pretty slowly since it’s lying at such a bad angle, but it does mean that Gladio has to duck down around the sword to avoid it.

While the MT’s distracted, though, the wolf ‘taur leaps forward and buries a dagger into the MT’s chest control unit.

There’s a lot of sparks and crackling for a minute, but then the MT goes quiet and dark. 

“Hey, he was mine,” Gladio protests.

“Don't worry, you definitely saved my life, kid; I just lent a hand in finishing it,” the wolf ‘taur says, then squints at him now that he’s got a good visual. “Wait a sec, what the hell, how old are you? Twelve?”

The guy thinks Gladio is _twelve_. Gladio proudly puffs up his fur a bit.

“He’s _eight_ ,” Iggy snaps from the shadows of the nearby building. “Gladio, get _back_ here already!” 

“Didja see what I did?” Gladio asks him.

“I did,” Iggy says. “And we need to get out of the way before more MTs come – they usually travel in groups, remember?”

“That’s right,” the wolf ‘taur says, running his hand through his braided hair, mouthing ‘eight’ to himself with a weird expression. “But Libertus is still trapped –”

Iggy, who was right in the middle of hissing to Gladio that he was going to march off back to the headquarters with or without Gladio and it’d better be _with_ Gladio or he was _telling his mom_ , suddenly freezes.

“Your friend’s name is Libertus?” he asks.

“Yeah,” the guy says, blinking at him. “And I’m Nyx.”

“Your friend’s name is _Libertus_ ,” Iggy says again, his voice sounding kind of weird. “And he’s a _bear_.”

“Uh. Yeah?”

“Has he ever considered introducing himself as Li- _bear_ -tus?” Iggy asks.

Ugh, Gladio should’ve known it’d be something like that. Iggy _loves_ puns. 

Nyx snorts. “Um. No. But clearly he should.” His smile fades. “But I can’t get him out from under the rubble.”

“Oh, that’s easy enough,” Iggy says. “You’re pushing on the wrong side – here, watch me –”

“Wait, no, hold up, I’m not letting an eight-year-old –” Nyx starts, but Iggy’s already gone hopping up the rubble.

“He’s actually only seven,” Gladio offers helpfully. “I’m a year older.”

Nyx covers his eyes. “Oh, Ramuh’s many beaks, I’m a terrible person. Accepting help from _kitlings_.”

“Hey! Don’t forget I’m the one who saved _your_ life!”

“Watch out below!” Iggy calls, and does – _something_ , Gladio’s not quite sure what, but somehow the entire building just falls apart, the spare wall sliding right off like it’s got wet clay under it, and suddenly Libertus is free and very surprised-looking about it. 

“Libertus!” Nyx shouts, and leaps forward, helping his friend up. “Are you hurt?”

“No, I’m okay,” Libertus says, clapping Nyx’s shoulder. “It wasn’t weighing on me, it just squeezed too tight for me to get free, that’s all. How’re you?”

“Embarrassed,” Nyx says wryly, though Gladio’s not sure why. “But I’m okay. We need to get back to my house – my _selena_ ’s there –”

“Selena?” Iggy asks.

“My sister,” Nyx says. “Her name’s Hemera –” He bites his lip, looking just short of frantic. “I don’t know if she got out during the evacuation –”

“Why wouldn’t she?” Gladio asks. “The alarms –”

Nyx makes a face. “I don’t know if Selena even saw the evacuation alarms; she might not be looking. She’s deaf, you see, so she can't hear them – she usually sees the red flags when she looks out the window, or gets a visual text on her phone, but she stayed up all night doing her Crownsguard entrance exams, so she might still be _asleep_ – we’ve been trying to get back to her since this whole thing started but –”

“We’ll help you,” Gladio says, aiming for a tone firm enough that no one will argue the way Iggy’s mom always manages.

Judging from the look on Iggy’s face, he knows exactly where Gladio got that tone from, and he’s not impressed. 

“You’re just _kids_ –” Nyx starts.

“Let ‘em come,” Libertus interrupts, shaking himself all over. “We don’t have time to argue - there are MTs on the way. We can drop ‘em off somewhere safe later. Let’s go.”

Iggy takes one look at him and leaps onto Libertus’ back, probably because he knows his little ibex legs aren't designed to keep up with a full run even if he was in good enough fitness for it, which he's not; Libertus doesn’t even notice and takes off at a galloping sort of run, Nyx and Gladio right behind them. 

“The sky’s still _clear_ ,” Nyx says as they run. 

“So what?” Gladio asks. He’s panting a little bit, but he’s still doing okay keeping up – his dad was totally right to insist on all of those endurance lessons.

“That means - the alarms - I don’t understand why the sea’s doing this! It’s going crazy like there’s a hurricane coming _now_ – at first the tsunami alarms went off and I figured it was a freak event, and then I realized it was to warn us about the Niflheim attack rather than the weather – but now the sea is _also_ going nuts –”

“Oh, that,” Gladio says. “That’s probably because of Leviathan.”

“ _Leviathan_?”

“Yeah,” Gladio says. “She’s being summoned.”

“Wait, _what_?! Why would anyone _do_ that? She’s not all that fond of humanity _regularly_!”

“Well,” Gladio says practically. “Would _you_ want to be flying over those seas right now?”

“…point.”

They get back to a nice little house and Nyx barrels through the door, shouting Hemera’s name, which doesn’t seem to make sense since he told Gladio that she was deaf, but maybe it makes him feel better. 

“She’s not here!” Libertus shouts. “Nyx!”

“You think she evacuated?”

“Does she look like you?” Iggy demands.

“What?”

“Your sister! Does she look like you?”

“Yes! Like me, a wolf 'taur, just with pale-colored fur on her lower half – do you see her?”

Iggy points across the street at what used to be a small corner store. The front of the building collapsed, and there’s a female wolf ‘taur beating frantically at the glass. Iggy's right: she does look like Nyx.

“Hemera!”

Nyx rushes over to try to pull away the rubble, but there’s too much. She starts moving her hands frantically – at first Gladio thinks she’s just panicking, but then he recognizes a few of the signs from when Prompto was young and didn’t talk much. It’s LSL, Lucian Sign Language. Well, it makes sense, since she’s deaf. 

“What’s she saying?” he asks.

“She’s saying that there’s no way out,” Ignis translates, because _of course_ he’s learned LSL. Gladio's going to have to do double-time just to catch up, isn't he? “The door is blocked and the windows are boarded up, and – oh dear – she says there’s a _bomb_ in there!”

“A _bomb_?”

“I don’t know the word she uses before it –”

“Unexploded,” Nyx says shortly, working together with Libertus to try to move it. “So far, anyway. She says it’s about to go off.”

Hemera signs some more.

“An MT squadron came through here earlier,” Nyx translates, clearly functioning on automatic instinct. “They came to the house – she ran away to the store through the window – they blew up the door, but then the Crownsguard came and chased them out.” He pauses, suddenly struck by horror. “If they hadn’t been here…”

He goes quiet.

Gladio tries to tug at some of the rubble. If only Dad were here! Or Noct’s dad, he could’ve used the warping to jump, or maybe used his lightning power to blast straight through –

Gladio gets an idea.

It’s a _terrible_ idea, but it’s starting to occur to him that he really doesn’t want to be out here, especially with poor Hemera all trapped and all the MTs coming and bombs dropping, but he knows they can’t leave without rescuing Hemera.

So maybe it’s worth a shot.

He tugs at Nyx’s pants. “Hey, hey,” he says. “Your shirt – you’re a Crownsguard trainee?”

“Well, technically I’m aiming for Galadh Coast Guard once I pass boot camp, but yeah,” Nyx says. “Why?”

“Have you done the whole oath-to-the-king thing?” Gladio demands. 

“Uh, yeah – we did that when we joined –”

“What’re you thinking?” Iggy demands. 

“I can do the channeling thing a little bit,” Gladio says. “The lightning and fire and stuff. Like Dad – he taught me how.”

“I don’t know if that’s a good idea,” Iggy says, wringing his hands together. “You remember what he said –”

“Channeling?” Nyx interrupts, looking between them. “Channeling _what_?” 

“Magic!”

“You can use _magic_?”

“It’s the King’s magic,” Gladio explains. “But I’m an Amicitia –”

“Glacian’s tits, he’s an Amicitia,” Libertus moans. That’s very rude. 

Also, isn’t the swear for the Glacian ‘Glacian’s jewels’…? That's how Gladio's always heard it. 

“– and I know how to channel it,” Gladio finishes, deciding to think about it later. “Well. With help.”

“Will it get us in there?” Nyx asks, getting straight to the point.

“I think so.”

Nyx crouches down next to Gladio. “Then how can I help?”

Gladio puts his hand on Nyx’s chest, right over his human heart the way he does with his Dad, and he focuses on the place inside of him where the magic comes. Dad told him that everyone who swears an oath to the King of Lucis has a direct line to the King’s magic; it’s just that most people can’t use it. But Amicitias can, and Gladio’s pretty sure Iggy will be able to, too, one day. He’s always been able to feel the magic. 

“Hey, my chest is feeling warm,” Nyx says. “Is that normal?”

“You can feel that?” Iggy demands. 

“Uh – yes, I think so – ”

“You can access the magic!” Gladio exclaims, surprised.

“Good,” Iggy says. “Then he can throw the fireball instead of you!”

“Fireball?” Libertus asks, sounding interested. 

“Gladio, you _know_ your dad said you shouldn't channel things like that until you were older,” Iggy says, ignoring him to focus on Gladio. “And not just because what you can do is dangerous, but because your body is too young to process the power properly –”

“I’ll do it,” Nyx says immediately. “Just tell me how.”

Gladio tells him.

Nyx nods, and stands. He signs something to Hemera, who nods and backs away, then he holds his hand behind him, like he’s going to throw something, closes his eyes and concentrates. 

And then he throws his hand forward.

A giant fireball zips away from his hand and blasts into the door.

“Holy _crap_ , Nyx!” Libertus exclaims. 

Nyx is gaping. “I just did that. I just – I just _did that_ –”

A second later, Hemera jumps out through the smoking pit of the door and rushes forward to embrace her brother. She’s a wolf, like Nyx, but where his wolf fur is dark greys and blacks, hers is a pale grey dappled with spots of white and tan. 

Then the entire building explodes right behind her, sending them all staggering back.

“Hemera,” Nyx yelps, clutching at her tighter. “Oh, _selena_ , my moon – it just – it –

She kisses him on the cheek, then pulls back and signs something.

“Yeah,” Nyx says, staring at the building. “You _definitely_ told me so. That explosion is a bit more imminent than I thought you meant, that’s all.” He shudders. “If we didn’t get you out…if we hadn’t been able to open that door in time…”

She hugs him again, and even Gladio can interpret the next few signs as “but you did, so it’s okay.” 

Nyx shakes his head. “I thought I’d lost you…”

Hemera smiles at him – and then suddenly the smile goes wicked, and she signs something else. 

Nyx suddenly flushes bright red. “I didn’t _steal children_! They came to me! I don't even know where they came from!”

She signs some more, still grinning. Gladio mentally vows to learn LSL.

“ _Yes_ ,” Nyx squawks. “Of course I’m planning to _put them back_!”

* * *

King Hasdrubal the Third of the lost and sunken Atlantioi, which apparently isn’t nearly as lost as it’s supposed to be – though Prompto does have to concede that it is, indeed, sunk – is an octopus ‘taur.

Which is pretty cool, Prompto hadn’t even known that ‘taurs _came_ in pure aquatic forms before now. Sure, Cor told him about old Weskham the Walrus ‘taur, since he’d been an old friend of Noct’s dad and Gladio’s dad and he travelled around with them when Cor was just a kid, and he’d said something about there being plenty of aquatic-like mammal ‘taurs over in Accordo – bears and water shrews and otters and stuff, which is probably why the group that got sent to rescue them was composed of ‘taurs that were comfortable on both sea and land – but this is _totally different_. 

Prompto never even _imagined_ that there could be ‘taurs who were octopuses-es. Octopuses? Octopi? 

“Is it octopuses or octopi?” he whispers to Noct, who shrugs.

“It’s actually ‘octopodes’,” King Hasdrubal says, which means Prompto’s whispering wasn’t as quiet as it might’ve been. 

Oops.

“However, we generally prefer cephalopodaetaurs,” the king adds with a smile and a shrug, which itself is a complicated business involving all eight of his tentacles. “The cephalopodaetaurs have reigned in Atlantioi for generations – very nearly since the original sinking.”

Honestly, Prompto thinks this whole thing is _really cool_. They travelled by _bubble_. They arrived at a gigantic underwater city, made of stone and non-rusting steel and other things, and most of that was under a bubble, too, which meant that they could walk inside and breathe, even though there are all sorts of _super_ -aquatic mammal ‘taurs like manatees and seals and even _dolphins and whales_ everywhere. 

_So_ cool.

Noct thinks it’s pretty cool too, to judge by his grin.

“On that note,” Noct’s mom says in her best regal tone, “I believe I have some questions…”

King Hasdrubal holds up his hands (just the hands, not the tentacles), though, looking grave. “I understand,” he says. “We will have time to discuss many of them, including why we have lived in secret all these many years, whether we can open up diplomatic relations between our two nations, and what benefits we both might obtain from this meeting. But now is not the time: Leviathan has risen. Come – behold.”

He beckons them forward, so they all go forward – Prompto glances at Cor, who’s focused on the whole room, and then at the very nice hippopotamus ‘taur named Dido who nods encouragingly at him. She’s dark-skinned, like Maero and some of the Crownsguard and a good portion of the Galahdians and also King Hasdrubal, but the rest of the audience room – all filled with aquatic ‘taurs, like seals and walruses and hippos and otters and even manatees – is as diverse as Lucis, which is good. 

Cor always says that he doesn’t trust people who discriminate by nationality, color or fur, and he _especially_ hates people that try to pretend that all three are the same when they _obviously_ aren’t. According to the pre-Solheim records they’ve found, people used to assume that where you were from said something about your color (presumably skin color, since they didn't have fur? weird - there's a lot more fur colors than there are skin colors), but anyway that was way back before Solheim, which had something called a Right of Travel or something, and everyone got all mixed up everywhere, and that’s how they stayed even after the radio-action of the Astral’s war made them all into ‘taurs and split them into separate countries again for the first time in generations. 

So if these people don’t discriminate, that’s got to be a good sign, right?

Noct’s favorite is clearly Bomilcar, the capybara ‘taur, instead of Dido the hippopotamus ‘taur that Prompto thinks is amazing, but Bomilcar – who’s standing next to the throne – is nodding approvingly as well, so they go trotting up forward with the adults.

King Hasdrubal is gesturing at some sort of giant mirror, but Prompto’s attention gets a little distracted.

“I really like your parrot shrimp,” he tells him, pointing at the tank next to the throne. 

“Giant mantis shrimp, actually,” Bomilcar says, smiling a little.

“That’s not _giant_ , it’s barely the size of a parrot, I've seen bigger for eating –”

“Shhh,” Noct says, elbowing Prompto, and so Prompto turns to look at the mirror, which it turns out isn’t actually a mirror at all but some sort of television screen.

It shows the beach of Galahd, with all the Niflheim airships fleet above it, and the waters gone all raging and everything even though the sky is still barely catching up, cloud-wise. And then, from the churning waters of the deep, something massive breaks through the water’s surface. 

Leviathan rises.

Leviathan has always been the least humanoid of the Astrals: the great and fearsome Tidemother, with the head of a serpent-dragon instead of a human torso, a long scaled neck and fins instead of a torso and arms, and her gigantic body underneath, with its long snake-like tail, the claw-like fins…

Huh. Maybe Prompto shouldn’t have been so surprised about aquatic ‘taurs after all, in the land famously sunk by Leviathan in a rage. 

In the mirror, Leviathan’s snake-like head rears up dramatically, except of course the Niflheim airships are in the way and she promptly bonks her skull on the underside of one of the ships. 

Prompto bursts into giggles, which in turn makes Noct – who was barely resisting before – do the same. 

“It’s not funny, children,” Aulea says. “She’s a very dangerous goddess – Cor, are you _laughing_?”

“No,” Cor says, but he’s _definitely_ smirking. “I am not laughing at the massive snake-goddess bonking her head like a tall person hitting the ceiling of a too-small room.”

“Technically, she hit an airship,” King Hasdrubal says, but he’s got an expression like he thinks it’s pretty funny, too.

And then one of the Niflheim ships – out of automatic reaction, or maybe out of stupidity – decides to fire on Leviathan.

“Oooh, bad idea,” Cor says.

“Very,” Aulea says.

“Oh dear,” King Hasdrubal says.

“This is gonna be _awesome_ ,” Noct says.

Leviathan turns and opens her mighty jaws. The airship is bigger than she can swallow, but she can grip it with her teeth and, with a strong toss of her head, _fling_ it at one of the other airships – and, indeed, she does just that. 

There’s a giant booming explosion when the two airships hit each other.

“Yaaaaay!” Prompto exclaims, leaping into the air and barking, his tail wagging furiously. 

The last big airship turns to face her, leaving the smaller ships to the business of attacking Galahd.

Leviathan looks at them for a long moment, then suddenly the air is filled with streaming water spouts, all shaped like Leviathan –

“The other heads of the hydra!” Noct exclaims, clapping. 

“He has to defeat – _that_?” Noct’s mom says faintly, watching the ship get ripped apart by the heads. "My baby?"

“Fun,” Cor says, but that’s because Prompto’s Cor is the best. “Can’t wait. How do we get her to come here, instead of where the Oracle is summoning her?”

“That will not be a problem,” King Hasdrubal say, and waves a hand. A handful of the retainers head off. After another minute of watching Leviathan screaming with rage at the Niflheim fleet ship she’s kicking the ass of, very effectively, there’s a big boom that shakes the room.

“What was _that_?” Noct’s mom yelps.

“An underwater concussion bomb,” King Hasdrubal says. “It will attract Leviathan’s attention – she has always paid special attention to Atlantioi.”

Sure enough, Leviathan turns away from savaging the Niflheim ship and slowly sinks beneath the waves again, although her watery secondary heads continue to wreak some serious havoc.

“Hey, why’re her other heads hitting the buildings on shore?” Prompto asks, frowning at the mirror. “She’s not just hitting the Niflheim ships.”

“Leviathan does not like ‘taurkind,” King Hasdrubal says solemnly. “She hasn’t since before the fall of Solheim – it was only her notion of duty that kept her in line with Bahamut and the others against the insurrection of Ifrit. That is why wise ‘taurs fear to raise her, for, like the coeurls of the Galahd interior, she attacks them indiscriminately. That is why it is unwise to summon her.”

“We were aware of that,” Cor says dryly. “We thought it worth the risk, especially since we needed to raise her _anyway_ for the Covenant.”

“Which, it occurs to me, you still haven’t explained how you know about,” Noct’s mom says pointedly. “Or about Noctis.”

“Our connection with the sleeping and now-risen Leviathan is closer than other lands,” King Hasdrubal says. “She speaks to us, sometimes: she spoke of the end – the coming of the Chosen King – and six years ago, she said, in a tone that shook the sea, ‘He is Come At Last.’”

“The sea shook on your birthday?” Prompto asks Noct, duly impressed. “I thought you just had a star in the sky.”

“Cool,” Noct says. “Must’ve been uncomfortable to be in, though. Like being in a bottle of water that someone's holding while they're running or something.”

“It was fine, though I appreciate your concern,” King Hasdrubal says, sounding a bit strangled – kinda like the way adults sound when they’re trying not to laugh. “Perhaps you should bend your mind towards your upcoming meeting, young Chosen King.”

“ _Prince_ ,” Noct says crossly. “My Dad’s still around, you know.”

“She is coming,” Bomilcar says, looking at the mirror. “We should go to the Goddess’ Balcony.”

The Goddess’ Balcony turns out to be just a regular old balcony, looking out from the palace over a giant stadium, except with no roof and one giant wall missing, which makes a lot more sense once Leviathan slithers down to fill the space.

Then the place becomes positively cosy. Leviathan is _very_ large.

“ _You seek the Covenant, Chosen King_ ,” she says, her hissing voice deep and booming and coming from all directions.

“Prince!” Noct exclaims.

Leviathan blinks her big eyes at him, clearly not having expected that response.

“My Dad’s still alive,” Noct says, crossing his arms. “That makes me a _prince_ , not a king. _Duh_.”

In Prompto's view, Noct has a point there. 

“ _You are…_ ” Leviathan hesitates. “ _Younger than I was expecting you to be_.”

“We decided not to wait,” Cor puts in. He seems relaxed, but his hand is on his sword. “Didn’t seem like it’d do any good, waiting for a tragedy to come.”

Leviathan considers this for a moment, then shakes her mighty head. “ _It matters not. You dare to summon me_ –”

“Technically Luna summoned you,” Noct points out. “And she’s the Oracle; it’s kinda her job, isn’t it?”

“ _That is beside the point! You dare demand the power of a goddess!_ ”

“It’s in the Prophecy,” Noct protests. “It’s not _my_ fault that I have to come talk with all of you! Take it up with Bahamut if you’re angry! He's the one who predicted it!”

Leviathan hisses at him, which Prompto thinks is very rude.

“ _You are weak_ ,” she says disdainfully. “ _Weak and unworthy – no more than an insignificant speck_!”

Noct takes a step back. He looks like his feelings have been hurt.

“That’s not nice,” Prompto says. He doesn't like it when people hurt Noct's feelings. 

“ _There is nothing in you that is worthy of my power_ ,” Leviathan spits. “ _Small and stupid, like all of your kind – forgetting your place, for my power is as far beyond you as I am – even if you had waited as you ought, until the fullness of time, you would never have defeated me!_ ”

“That’s _really_ not nice.”

“ _Pathetic_ ,” Leviathan sneers. “ _Just like all of humanity_ –” That’s an archaic word, as old as pre-Solheim when people used to actually _be_ humans rather than 'taurs; the preferred word now is ‘taurkind. “– _you, little Chosen one, are nothing more than a waste of space, a waste of time, one which should never have been born_ –”

She stops abruptly.

After a moment, she says, in a very different tone of voice, that very same sort of adult-strangled-maybe-kinda-trying-not-to-laugh voice that King Hasdrubal had earlier, “ _What does the puppy think he is doing_?”

“He appears to be biting your fin,” Cor says. He’s taken his hand off his sword because he’s put his face in his hands – Prompto can just see it over where his mouth is filled with fin from where he’s leaped over the balcony, his both sets of paws scrabbling for balance on her slick scales. Luckily, she’s big enough that he’s able to find some hold with his fingers and all four paws. “Ma’am.”

“ _I…see. And why is he doing this_?”

“I think he’s trying to get you to stop speaking in that manner to Prince Noctis,” Noct’s mom says. She also has her face in her hands. Maybe it’s a grown-up thing? “Prompto, please come back.”

Prompto releases the fin. “No!” he barks. “She was being _mean_. You’re not supposed to be mean to people! They said so in kindergarden!”

“That doesn’t mean you can bite them, Prompto,” Cor says, sounding long-suffering. “We’ve had this conversation before. Remember pre-school? I thought we were over this. No biting people.”

Prompto turns to look at him, putting his hands on his hips – his paws slip a bit when he does, but Leviathan catches and steadies him with another one of her fins, and that makes it much easier to stand. “You _said_ that people need to be kind to each other,” he says fiercely. “Kindness among ‘taurs – that’s the only way we’ll ever be good people. You have to try to be nice, even when you’re upset, because you don’t know what other people’s lives are like. The only time it’s okay to be mean is when you see someone attacking people who are weaker than they are, because that makes them bullies, and bullies have to be stopped. And she was being mean to Noct for no reason even though she's much stronger!”

“ _You have a very loyal companion, young Prince_ ,” Leviathan says to Noct.

“Prompto’s the best,” Noct says, frowning at her. “But he’s right, you know. You’re a _goddess_ , aren’t you? Then why are _you_ being so mean? You’re so much more powerful than we are, and powerful people attacking weak people – well, Prompto's right. that just makes you a bully.”

“The Tidemother is not a bully,” King Hasdrubal says, sounding vaguely horrified. 

Noct crosses his arms. “Well?” he says to Leviathan. “Are you a bully or not? Because you’re being awfully nasty, and all the ‘taurs up in Galahd and in the Port and even back at home, they all celebrate you once every year, and I don’t know why they do that if you don’t even _like_ any of them.”

“ _Humanity is weak_ ,” Leviathan says, but she sounds almost puzzled.

“So?” Prompto says. “Lots of people are weak. I’m weak.”

“You are anything but weak, Prompto,” Cor says, clearly functioning on automatic, because Cor doesn't let Prompto say nasty things about himself, not ever. “Your inability to lift more than thirty pounds at a given time is just because your muscle tone is underdeveloped – it doesn’t say anything about you.”

“That’s not the _point_ , though,” Noct says. Noct understands what Prompto means, he always does, even when Cor sometimes gets confused; that’s why Prompto loves Noct the absolute best and that’s why they’re gonna get married when they grow up. “What he means is – so what if ‘taurs are weak? That doesn’t change how _you_ should act. Both a bully and a hero have power: the difference between them is that a bully uses his power to be mean to people who are weaker, while a hero uses his power to protect them.” 

He glares up at Leviathan.

“This is nothing to do with _us_ ,” he says. “This is all to do with _you_. My dad always says that who you are isn’t something that’s the same all the time, from birth. Who you are is shown by the choices you make, every day, and it’s always up to you in the end whether you’re going to stand tall and be good, or if you’re not. Which one are you, Leviathan?”

Huh, now even King Hasdrubal has his face in his hands. Definitely a grown-up thing.

But then the fin under Prompto’s paws starts to shake and he has to leap back to the scales to try to get a handhold so he doesn’t fall. That means it takes a few seconds for him to figure how what’s happening.

Leviathan is _laughing_.

“ _You speak the truth, young Prince_ ,” she says. “ _If you had appealed to me on behalf of humanity at large, I would have repelled you – I would have attacked, for I care nothing of the humanity which built for itself the greatest monuments and then in their recklessness and weakness destroyed them, humanity which hurts and injures and destroys each other and also the world in which they live in without care for the consequences. But you ask me to judge myself, lest I myself repeat in myself the behaviors which have led me to despise humanity._ ”

She shakes her giant snake-liked head.

“ _I will not be like those I despise_ ,” she says. “ _I will be better than they, even to those who I do not think deserve it. You may have my blessing, young Prince._ ”

Noct blinks. “Oh,” he says. “Huh. Cool. Really? That's cool.”

“ _Out of the mouth of babes_ ,” Leviathan says, sounding long-suffering.

“Hey!” Noct yelps. “I’m not a baby!”

“You’re _my_ baby,” Noct’s mom says firmly. “Now take the win and say thank you to the – uh – to the nice goddess.”

“Thank you,” Noct says obediently.

“Yeah, thanks,” Prompto says, and pats her scales. “Maybe you’re not a bully after all. And it was really cool what you did with the airships – especially that part where you threw one into the other and they went BOOM!”

“ _I concur, young companion. That was indeed very, ah, cool_ ,” Leviathan says. She still sounds amused, and then she gently rears up and turns her fin diagonally so that Prompto tumbles back down onto the balcony. “ _Go well, little one – and believe in your guardian. You are not weak._ ”

“Awww, thanks,” Prompto says.

“ _However, your jaw strength is indeed very weak. Do not bite people in the future._ ”

“Oh, _fine_ ,” Prompto grumbles. No one seems to appreciate it when he bites people. 

“Maybe it’ll actually _stick_ this time,” Cor says with a sigh, gathering Prompto into his arms. He doesn’t sound like he believes it, though.

Leviathan chuckles again and withdraws from the watery stadium, and she settles her great form down into a gigantic ditch until her head is fully hidden and all that can be seen is a positive mountain of scales.

The water goes quiet.

"Leviathan has return to her slumber," King Hasdrubal said. He sounded impressed. 

Prompto wags his tail hopefully. “Does that mean we can go home now?” he asks.

“Yes,” Noct’s mom says. “And we are _never_ doing that again.”


	13. 13

“This is the weirdest trip I’ve ever been on,” Nyx says thoughtfully, not for the first time.

“Shut the fuck up, you whiny bastard,” Hemera signs cheerfully back at him. "I'm the one stuck with three dumb guys."

“You do know that I understand LSL, right?” Cor asks mildly, hands casually forming the signs as he speaks.

Hemera turns bright red, which is her own damn fault for underestimating the Marshal of the Crownsguard. Nyx sticks his tongue out at her when he thinks Cor isn't looking. 

“How did I end up with you three again?” Cor asks the air, even though they know for a fact that he already knows the answer. “You can channel the king’s magic – you’re Kingsguard, or whatever it is they’re calling that new division.”

“Kings _glaive_ ,” Libertus replies with a hearty chuckle, though in fairness as a bear 'taur everything he does sounds hearty. “And you know that very well. You just don’t like Captain Drautos!”

Cor snorts. “Hearth and home,” he says. His voice is level and calm, considering, but Nyx is still able to detect the slightest hint of mockery. “That’s a hell of a motto.”

“What’s the Crownsguard motto?” Hemera asks. “And you know you don’t need to sign; I read lips.”

“It’s good for me to get back into practice, but I’m happy to stop if you’d prefer,” Cor says. “I sometimes fail to look at people while I’m speaking to them – an old habit I’m continuously trying to break.”

“I appreciate it, then,” Hemera signs. “You’re remarkably good at keeping up with yourself simultaneously.”

“I try,” he signs at her, then says aloud to the others. “And in answer to your question, the Crownsguard has no motto.”

“Really?” Libertus asks. “Why not?”

“Because it’s our job and we know what we’re doing, so we don’t need to be preached to while we do it?” Cor suggests archly.

Hemera laughs. 

Nyx is grinning. He likes the Marshal a lot. He almost wishes he was part of the Crownsguard instead of the Kingsglaive – not really, because using magic is _amazing_. Hemera likes to joke that Nyx would travel everywhere by warp if he could, which is totally not true.

Okay, it’s a little bit true.

But seriously, Nyx can _literally light fires with his hands_. How is that not awesome in every possible respect?

“Levity aside, the Crownsguard doesn’t have a motto because it used to be the Lucian army,” Cor says. “The entirety of the armed forces of Lucis, so there was no need for a separate motto. Some decades before I was born, the Crownsguard was converted into a purely defensive force instead of an offensive force, in part because Lucis doesn’t believe in conquest but mostly because we were – are – _losing_. The war with Niflheim is a matter of preventing attrition, not of winning, and we all know it. The idea of some –” Here his nose wrinkled. “– some sort of rabble-rousing slogan just seemed, and still seems, somehow…inappropriate.”

Libertus snorts. “Yeah, tell us what you really think.”

“If it makes people feel better, then what’s wrong with it?” Hemera signs.

Nyx rolls his eyes. They’re both clearly just goading Cor now.

Cor knows it, too; he makes a face at them. He huffs. “Hearth and home,” he says, and shakes his head. “Honestly, all this emphasis on _home_ – tell me, your Captain _does_ realize that we’re increasingly a nation of immigrants, right? Refugees? I understand wanting to emphasize loyalty to the concept of ‘home’ and then presumably associating that loyalty with Insomnia, but for quite a lot of people, Insomnia’s where they’re _staying_ , not what they think of as their _home_. I don’t see how that’s going to accomplish anything other than making people even more homesick than they already are –”

“I like it,” Libertus says cheerfully. “Has a nice ring to it.”

“So do _advertising jingles_ ,” Cor says in a deeply aggravated tone of voice. “Anything can have a ring to it. You don’t hear me saying, ‘Come join the Crownsguard, where you’re likely to get charred’.”

Nyx, Libertus and Hemera all burst out laughing.

“Give me a break, not much rhymes with ‘guard,’” Cor complains.

“No, that’s amazing,” Nyx chokes out. “I love it. I _love_ it. I'd sign up in the space of two heartbeats. Do another one.”

“You’ll learn to be defiant,” Cor muses, “when you’re fighting an Iron Giant…”

“Please stop,” Libertus wheezes.

“Welcome to Insomnia,” Nyx giggles. “Where you see strange phenomena.” 

“Come guard the Kingdom of Lucis,” Libertus says. “Where you – where you –”

“End up in an oceanic abyss?” Cor suggests mildly. 

Hemera is actually crying. 

Actually, Nyx might be, too. He’s having trouble breathing. 

He _really_ hopes they don’t get attacked by daemons right now. It would be _such_ an embarrassing way to die. 

Libertus has actually plopped down on his big bear hindquarters to laugh better, clutching at his belly. 

Cor smirks at them. “Well, at least I get to rob him of you three for a bit,” he says cheerfully, and that backhanded compliment gets them all glowing all the way to the next rest stop, three hours later. 

Sure, Nyx knows they’re only involved in this mission because the number of people that know about the whole Prophecy business is basically a dozen and the bunch that are in the Crownsguard are needed elsewhere right now – he only knows about it because Gladio accidentally let something slip and then everyone assumed that they knew more than they seemed to know and at any rate Nyx wasn’t turning down an invitation to go back and join the Crownsguard in Insomnia proper when it involved helping found a brand new magic-centric fighting force – but it’s still pretty cool to be involved, even if they _are_ only on the Marshal’s team because he’s capable of babysitting them and accomplishing the mission regardless.

It doesn’t matter. They’re going _tomb-raiding_. For _real_. This is the most awesome thing that’s happened to Nyx, well, ever. 

Next to magic, anyway.

And to think he thought that his eighteenth birthday would be boring.

“Say, it _is_ your birthday, ain’t it?” Libertus says when they’re setting up camp. 

Nyx elbows him sharply, but it’s too late: Cor looks up from where he’s sharpening his sword with interest. 

“Birthdays, huh?”

“Uh, yeah,” Nyx says. “No biggie – Hemera and me having birthdays – obviously it’s both of our birthdays, because we’re twins – and – yeah –”

Hemera groans and drops her head against Libertus’ shoulder in a pantomime of dismay. 

“You’re an amazingly awful liar,” Cor observes, sounding amused. “What are you trying to hide?”

“We-ell, it just, you know – it’s a birthday,” Nyx hedges.

Hemera reaches over and taps Cor’s shoulder for attention. When he looks at her, she signs, “We’re turning eighteen. The official age for joining the Kingsglaive is, by coincidence, also eighteen.”

Cor snorts. “Yeah,” he says. “That’s the age for joining the Crownsguard, too; had to break poor little Crowe’s hearts.”

“I liked her,” Libertus says. They met briefly, back in Galahd, when they were cleaning up after the invasion attempt and the King was pulling in additional people from Lucis to help set up additional defenses. There’d been a whole investigation into how Niflheim got so close and what happened during the invasion, and he’d ended up sitting next to her in a waiting room, both of them waiting to give their testimony about what they’d seen. Libertus all but adopted her on sight. 

Nyx approves, mostly because Libertus’ parents are dead and his having promised Crowe updates on the development of the Kingsglaive means Libertus has someone to write letters to back in Galahd along with the rest of them. 

Crowe’s parents are being very nice about the whole thing. They even send Libertus care packages sometimes.

Actually, now that Nyx thinks about it, he's not sure who adopted who in this scenario here...

“Crowe's a good kid,” he offers, making Libertus smile, and then he glances worriedly at Cor. “The whole eighteen-year-old thing…is that, uh, going to be an issue, or…”

“I joined Crownsguard at thirteen, you know,” Cor says.

They blink at him.

“I thought that was just a legend,” Libertus says blankly. “Y'know, part of the whole Immortal reputation thing.”

Cor makes a face. He does not overly enjoy being called the Immortal; Nyx always thought he must like it, because it’s basically the most awesome nickname ever, but it’s become pretty clear after a very short time of knowing the man in person that Cor can barely stand the nickname and only allows people to use it because it helps overall morale. “No, that part’s accurate. A surprising amount of the stories about me are accurate, sad to say. Though anything about me being able to fly or shoot lasers out of my eyes is total crap; putting that out there now.”

“Thirteen, though?” Hemera signs. “Was that before they put an age limit on the Crownsguard?”

“No. It was still eighteen back then.”

“Then, how…?”

“I lied about my age.”

Now they’re _really_ all staring at him. Cor doesn’t exactly look…old. 

To say the least. 

“I didn’t say it was a _good_ lie,” he says dryly. “You didn’t wonder how I ended up Marshal of the Crownsguard at my age?”

“How old are you?” Nyx asks, mentally revising his original guess – mid-40s, but actually immortal due to drinking the blood of virgins (?) and therefore looking much younger – significantly downwards.

“I’m twenty-eight.”

“You’re only _ten years_ older than us?” Nyx squawks. His revisions hadn’t been downwards enough.

“Don’t you have a six-year-old kid or something?” Libertus asks, sounding equally befuddled.

“Old,” Hemera signs, shaking her head mournfully. “So old.”

“Just for that, you’re helping me with the next birthday party for my kid,” Cor says mildly. “Start being afraid now, it’ll save time.”

That didn’t sound promising.

“Go to sleep,” Cor continues. “I’ll take first shift. We’ll pick up the Shield of the Just tomorrow.”

They do pick it up. 

Cor also somehow manages to find a tavern that serves Tenebrean whiskey and sweet-talks the owner into giving them two bottles of it in celebration of Nyx and Hemera’s birthday, which is _awesome_.

Even if Nyx _is_ nursing that hangover all the way back to Insomnia.

* * *

Luna has tried on what feels like every dress in her closet. 

She looks best in white, in her opinion, and she has a dozen dresses in that color: short dresses, tiered dresses, dresses with sashes, dresses with cut-outs, formal dresses, cocktail dresses, casual dresses…

Really, she’s being ridiculous. It’s not like she’s dressing up for a ball or anything – _that, at least, I have some experience with_ , she thinks wryly to herself – and it’s not like anyone’s going to look at her twice, not _really_. 

It’s just Noctis’ seventh birthday party, after all. It’s not like anyone will notice.

Luna smooths down her favorite white dress, the one with the three tiers and the cap sleeves: it suits her, the white is just right for her skin, but does it make her look too young?

It’s _just_ Noctis’ birthday party. At Wiz’s Chocobo Post, no less – feathers and dirt and everything. Terrible idea to wear a white dress.

But white looks best on her.

And Cindy _did_ say she looked pretty in it, last time they met…

Luna puts her hands on her cheeks, which have suddenly gone all hot. 

Okay, she’s being ridiculous. She doesn’t even know for sure that Cindy’s coming. And at any rate, just because they’ve been exchanging letters – quite often, even – doesn’t actually mean anything. After all, Luna’s also pen-pals with Crowe over in Galahd, and that certainly doesn’t signify anything in particular because then she might feel bad about being pen-pals with two people and that would just be _silly_ , of course, because they’re just _pen-pals_ and – 

And anyway, Cindy’s nearly fifteen, and Luna’s only twelve. 

She probably won’t even _notice_ what Luna’s wearing.

…she’ll wear the white dress. Just in case. 

Aulea drives them to the Chocobo Post – she’s incognito, technically, they all are, grinning wildly and wearing caps pulled down low, but of course there’s a whole lot of Crownsguard there as well. Kingsglaive, too – all very dashing in their own ways, really, those outfits with all the black and silver.

Crowe wants to be a Crownsguard.

Should she be thinking of Crowe now?

_You don’t even know if Cindy is going to be there_ , Luna lectures herself. _Stop being ridiculous_.

King Regis and Clarus, as his Shield and most important advisor, have to stay back and take care of the business of royalty – Luna _distinctly_ remembers all of her mother’s well-meant but hideously boring lectures on the subject, and her tutors like to discuss it at length as well – but that’s probably for the best: people won’t be as suspicious as they might be if the entire royal family went out, the way they did to go to Galahd. 

Luna supposes that’s why they’re waiting, really, before trying the next Astral: time to let the rumors die down, since no one was supposed to know about the familial trip but now everyone does, and also to calm everyone’s nerves. 

Scientia told Luna that she did well, and baked her a cake of her favorite flavor, and spent three days yelling (speaking sternly, really, since Apollonia Scientia does not Yell, officially) at people for messing up all of her cases while she was gone.

Luna still feels warm and fuzzy about how worried Scientia had been about her.

Cor has gone out a few times to look for the Royal Arms, in some instances more successfully than others, but it has largely been quiet. And that means, of course, that it's time for a party.

Wiz’s Chocobo Post is the same as ever, and all four of the boys are positively mad with excitement: none more than Prompto, of course, with his wagging tail and his Chocobo-colored fluff that he’s shedding on everything, but Noctis and Gladio and even the normally self-controlled Ignis are practically bouncing off the walls of the car. 

She suspects them of having indulged in illicit pre-trip birthday candy, but none of them are admitting anything. 

Aulea and Cyrella get out of the car, the long slinky dark red leather front seats designed to let a ‘taur rest their hindquarters folding down to let the kids out from the back. They look mildly traumatized. 

Cor gets off of his motorbike – also with a long leather seat, though this one is black – with a smirk.

Luna thinks she may have identified the source of the candy. 

There’s already plenty of people at the Chocobo Post – Crownsguard and Kingsglaive in civilian clothing, of course, but also regular people because even Noctis’ birthday party with all of his friends from school isn’t enough to take up more than a quarter of the Post. It’s a nice, brisk day, very sunny with only a handful of clouds – perfect weather, really. People are everywhere: sitting at the tables, cheering at the fences by the Chocobo racetrack, waiting in line for tours of the stables – everywhere. 

Everyone’s moving, everyone’s talking, everyone’s laughing –

Not everyone.

There’s a ‘taur remarkable primarily because he’s _not_ moving, just standing there near the main administrative building. He’s a leopard ‘taur with reddish hair, rendered almost purple in shade by his choice of sash of very nearly the same color, red-and-gold, and he’s wearing a black coat with grey designs that doesn’t hide the fact that he’s wearing a pinstripe vest underneath. 

He even has _spats_ on his paws. 

It’s not that his outfit’s unusual for the lovely autumn weather – okay, the spats are a bit much, but that’s applicable in _any_ weather – it’s that he’s just…standing there, motionless. Scanning the crowd, watching everyone around him with a faint smirk playing over his lips.

Luna’s not sure why her eyes are lingering on him. 

There’s something there – 

Some shadow –

“Hey, bambi girl!” a warm voice, thickly accented with a drawl, says from right behind her. “Don’t you look a pretty sight!”

“Cindy!” Luna exclaims, turning around to throw her arms around Cindy’s neck, forgetting at once about the strange ‘taur lingering and staring. “You came!”

“Of course I came,” Cindy says, hugging Luna back tightly. Her skin is very warm. There’s a lot of it – she’s wearing a pretty yellow jacket and a bright red hat, something red to match peeking out from under the jacket and a worker's belt slung low over her jackrabbit hindquarters, and that’s about all. It’s a look only Cindy could pull off. “You said you were coming, didn’t you? You don’t think I’d miss a chance to see my best pen-pal, would I?”

“Oh,” Luna says, smiling. Her cheeks are red, she just knows it. “Oh – yes. And there’s Noctis, of course.”

“Sure thing,” Cindy laughs. “I got him a racecar – you think he’ll like that?”

“A toy racecar?”

“No – a little one, like a scooter. It's the big ol' box over on the table, with the red cactaurs on it.”

“He’ll love it,” Luna says, absolutely certain. “He’ll love it so much that his dad might try to throw swords at you.”

“Like ol’ grandpappy would let him,” Cindy says. She loops an arm through Luna’s. “C’mon, bambi girl; let’s go try our luck betting the races.”

“Oh, yes,” Luna, who never previously realized how very interested in gambling she is, says. “Let’s go.”

It's only later that she remembers the strange ‘taur, and looks for him, but by then he's gone. 

The birthday party is fun – not lovely, not elegant, not anything like Luna's own birthday parties back in Tenebrae, where the occasion would be celebrated by a solemn prayer ceremony with beautiful choirs singing out prayers of thanksgiving, and the candles for her age would be lit on the altar by her mother, and then of course there would be a formal event in the evening, held under her namesake moon if possible, a ball which would have no dancing but required uncomfortably starched dresses. Luna always thought the ceremonies were terribly beautiful, if rather different from what they showed on television.

Her last birthday here in Lucis was...different. Her usual alarm was turned off, enabling her to sleep wonderfully late, and she was woken up instead when Scientia and Ignis came into her room with a tray of her favorite sweets – first thing in the morning! – and a small cheesecake in the shape of a crescent moon, all lined with candles. They sang happy birthday to her, and then insisted she go back to bed for another hour. She spent midday on the phone with her mother and Ravus, each of them wishing her a good year to come – Ravus made some rather uncalled for comments about Lucis, and King Regis in specific, stealing her away, the way he always did, but Luna gently reminded him that it was her birthday and he stopped well before making her cry like he sometimes did – and then she was whisked off to the celebrations: a visit to a laser tag arena with all of her favorite classmates, and then a film in the theaters (a real stinker, as it happened, but one that was so-bad-it's-good) and then dinner back at home, where they all sang happy birthday again and gave her all sorts of presents and cheered as she opened each one, and then most of them went home except for her absolute favorites who stayed for a sleepover involving truth-or-dare and gossip about everyone else in the world. 

Not beautiful, not elegant, but so much fun that Luna found herself quietly crying in the middle of the night because she ought to be missing her home, missing her mother and her brother and everything, and she did, honest, but sometimes, on days like today, she didn't really feel like she missed them as much as she _should_.

Gentiana ended up climbing into bed with her and wrapping her arms around her until Luna felt better, or at least cried out. 

At least she has Gentiana, who may not always understand, but who is always there to sympathize. 

And luckily, Noctis' birthday seems unlikely to end in tears: they take a tour of the Chocobo stables, then everyone is allowed to help feed and brush down the Chocobos, and then they're even allowed to ride them bareback, curling their hindquarters side-saddle around the chocobo's neck and holding on tight. 

Luna personally prefers to use a proper saddle – a nice extended one, with a nice basket to fold up your hindquarters and sit in, but the children are ecstatic. 

It’s a good day.

At least, it’s a good day at first.

It is during the Chocobo ride that _they_ attack.

Daemons, dozens of them, spilling out from the surrounding forest – proper daemons, too, not modified beasts, even though it’s daytime and the sunlight scorches their skin into sizzling smoke even as they attack. 

Luna screams. She's not the only one.

The Chocobos scatter wildly.

Luna manages to steer hers over to the stable and leaps off, looking for something she can do – anything – and Cindy catches up to her, putting a hand on her shoulder. 

“You stay next to me, bambi girl,” Cindy instructs. She’s pulled a gun out of one of the pouches attached to her belt, a deadly-looking thing, and when she sees Luna looking at it, she pulls out a second one, smaller, and offers it up.

Luna stares at it. It’s not that she _hasn’t_ had training in self-defense, a little bit of martial arts here, some sword-fighting there, and the very basics of shooting; it’s just that she’s never really much liked that sort of thing – she prefers reading to physical exertion, and begs her way out of extra training as much as possible. 

She knew her people were at war, she knew that she one day might be called upon to join that war, she knew that she had _already_ been called upon for gigantic battles with the Astrals and the Royal Arms and, eventually, the Accursed, but somehow she hadn’t put it together with those awful physical education classes and realized that not training her body would mean that she is _absolutely useless_ in a fight.

“Shhh, it’s okay,” Cindy says, reaching out and wiping away one of the tears of frustration that are starting to well up in Luna’s eyes. “I don’t much like shooting neither. Just take it and keep ‘er close, so that you can hold off anything that comes at you, okay?”

Luna nods, and takes the gun. 

The Crownsguard is there, though, and the Kingsglaive, and of course they have Cor, and Aulea, and even Cyrella, though obviously she’s keeping back to guard baby Iris, but there’s so many daemons everywhere, coming all at once, smoking and sizzling and making terrible sounds, and it feels like it lasts forever, but it’s actually only about ten or fifteen minutes or so by the clock when the noise all starts to die down and all the daemons are dead.

Luna peeks out from behind Cindy and sees –

“Noctis!”


	14. 14

“He’s going to be all right,” Clarus tells the children: Luna, who’s still shaking and hugging herself, and Ignis, who’s gone far too still, and Prompto, who hasn’t stopped crying even if he’s run out of noise to make, and Gladio, whose expression of blankness Clarus knows all too well. He feels it too, every time Regis gets himself hurt: that soul-scorching feeling of failure, of emptiness, consumed entirely by the thought that he did not do what he should have and put himself between his King and the dangerous world.

Clarus would have kept Gladio from knowing that feeling for many years yet, if he could. 

“He’s been in surgery for hours,” Ignis says, uncharacteristically exaggerating – but not by much. “That indicates the wound was serious.”

“His back,” Clarus says, because they deserve to know. “He was hurt badly, and he’ll probably have to use a wheelchair for a long while, but the doctors say that they think he’ll make a full recovery.”

He hesitates, because there was more that they said – medicine is all well and good, after all, but as far as the doctors all know, the Oracle is off in Tenebrae and they suggested a visit there once Noctis could be moved, to help heal him further with her magic. In reality, of course, they don’t need to go to Tenebrae for that; they have an Oracle with them already. But Lunafreya is still _shaking_ –

“I can help,” Luna says, understanding already. “When – when the doctors are done. I know a little of what my mother does.”

“Doesn’t that drain you?” Ignis asks sharply. “I won’t see you get hurt.”

“Iggy –”

“ _No_. Isn’t Noctis being hurt enough?”

Ignis’ own ankle is in a walking boot all the way down the hoof, having twisted when he fell from his Chocobo in the fracas, and Gladio’s arm is bandaged from a nasty cut he got when he charged one of the daemons and they swiped at him with their sword, but neither of them count those as injuries next to what happened to Noctis.

Proper warriors already, Clarus thinks sadly; he wishes it wasn’t so. 

“Luna, the doctors don’t want him treated with magic until they feel like the inflammation has gone down and there’s no chance of fevers,” Clarus says. “We would be very grateful to you for your help at a later point in time, in measured intervals, but we will _not_ let you hurt yourself trying to make Noctis better. Is that clear?”

“But –”

“That is _final_ , Lunafreya.”

She clenches her teeth, but nods. 

“Can we see him?” Prompto asks, his voice thready and raspy from all of his tears. “Please?”

“Not yet,” Clarus says. “As soon as we can, you will.”

It takes another three days before Noctis is well enough to speak to anyone, though the doctors prefer he use a phone rather than permit potentially rambunctious children to enter, and a full week before – after swearing to behave – they are allowed in.

Prompto scarcely leaves Noctis’ side after that, with Gladio and Ignis taking turns to go fetch whatever they can think of to make him smile: books, and plushies, and video games of all sorts. Luna is there, too, quite often, though they have to supervise her visits after the first few times she tries to further heal him unsupervised and works herself into a migraine that she then tries unsuccessfully to hide.

Nyx and Hemera and Libertus come visit with old Galahdian remedy soups that they swear on every Astral out there that they’ve made “mild” and positively “bland”, although Noctis’ face still turns bright red upon eating them. According to the Galadhians, that's a normal reaction to the chilis and peppers and a sign that the soup is working. 

Scientia sighs at them and shows up with soft, freshly-baked bread and rice balls and other food that is _actually_ bland, but somehow still utterly delicious - Clarus knows this because she makes enough to share, not because he's been stealing from an injured child, thank you. 

Regis continues to carry on forward, because he is the King and he must, but Clarus feels like his dearest friend aged five years in a single afternoon. His limp is heavier, his walk slower; his head is bowed more often; he frowns more. When Clarus thinks of what could have happened if Cor and the Crownsguard and the Kingsglaive hadn’t been there – if Regis hadn’t yielded and permitted Noctis to start training as a fighter from an abnormally young (for everyone but Cor) age – he shudders. 

As it is, everyone is taking this badly. Cor was defending Noctis and the other children, and he only left his post for a split second – and even accounting for the cost to Noctis, that second was well-spent, in Clarus’ mind, because his intervention was the only reason that Aulea survived the battle instead of dying on a daemon’s sword – but it means that Aulea is tormented by the thought that her own injuries or lack of fighting prowess was what led to her son’s injury, and that Cor hasn’t forgiven himself for his inability to be in two places at once. 

Because of that, Cor walks around with tension in his eyes, trains his people harder, and goes off for a week on his own to return with another Royal Arm which he refuses to let Noctis absorb until he feels up to it. He even sits and tells Noctis the whole story of how he got it from a dungeon behind a waterfall in the center of an ice-cave, listing for his amusement the taxonomy of all the species of daemon he encountered and slew in the process.

Clarus resists the urge to strangle Cor primarily due to the fact that his (highly mechanical) account of his battle with three mindflayers and two ronin keep the children, including Noctis, so enraptured that they actually forget about Noctis’ injury for an entire afternoon. 

Cyrella’s approach to cheering people up has been perhaps the most effective – she drops baby Iris into their arms, thereby causing everyone to immediately forget what they are doing – but it’s not sustainable.

At least Noctis is healing, Clarus reminds himself. Perhaps when he has fully healed – _if_ he fully heals – they will be able to move on and become healed themselves.

Clarus certainly hopes so, anyway. 

It’s been seven months, now, and yet everyone seems…frozen. 

Luna rushes by him in the hall, her deer legs making the hurried leaps look almost like a dance, and her eyes are red with crying again. 

Clarus considers his schedule – several meetings with some nobles on matters that on paper appear significant enough for him to agree to meet but which in all likelihood are simply covers to interrogate him as to the health of the Prince, like the gossipy vultures they are – and decides to follow Luna instead. 

By the time he finds her, though, padding silently after her, she's already found someone to comfort her: Gentiana, the Oracle's Messenger. The Messenger splits her time between the two Oracles, which seems appropriate enough, and she's remarkably good at remaining out of sight when she doesn't think she's needed; most of time, Clarus even forgets that she's there. 

Honestly, all things considered, Clarus prefers Umbra, the Messenger which has taken the shape of a dog, but he thinks that might be rude to say. Gentiana is, he assumes, entirely normal for a Messenger, and beautiful to boot, but he can't help it: she gives him the shivers, and not in a good way. She's too eerie for that. 

"It will be well, my Oracle," Gentiana is saying in her whispery voice. "The Prince heals even now."

"I know _that_ ," Luna sobs, clearly unappeased. "He's getting better every week – every month – little by little - I know it'll take time -"

"Then what is the cause for your tears?" 

"Everything!" 

"What do you mean?"

"If only I was a better Oracle, I could heal him the way Mother could," Luna says, her voice muffled from the way her face is pressed into Gentiana's side. "And then King Regis wouldn't look like someone stabbed him, and Scientia wouldn't be doubting her decisions, and Iggy wouldn't be throwing himself into those etiquette books like if he only studies enough he could go back in time and keep it from happening, and Gladio wouldn't be training himself at night even when it hurts him –"

Clarus didn't know that. That's no good; he'll have to put a stop to that.

"– and Cor goes out and does stupid things, and anytime Prompto isn't with Noctis he just goes _quiet_ and that's just _wrong_ and poor Aulea is always thinking that she did something bad just by not dying and Cyrella watches over baby Iris like she thinks something is going to happen to her and Clarus roams the hallways like he thinks he can guard everyone –"

He does?

Clarus considers his own actions these past few months. 

Yes. He does. 

"And Nyx and the others are all kicking themselves and –"

"Many are wounded when one they love is hurt," Gentiana interrupts gently before Luna goes on and names _everyone_ in the Citadel. "You cannot cure that, my Oracle; not even with the purity of your light."

"I bet Mother could," Luna mutters mutinously.

"She could not. The Prince heals –"

"It's _my fault_!" Luna exclaims. 

Gentiana blinks, taken aback. Clarus, standing some distance off and – he'll admit it – blatantly eavesdropping, blinks as well. How in the world did Luna reach that conclusion?

"It was not your presence which summoned the daemons," Gentiana points out. "The attack was aimed at Noctis."

"No, it wasn't," Luna sniffs, wiping at her face. "I looked at the security tapes from Wiz's –"

How did she get access to those?!

"– and they didn't try to kill Noctis after they hurt him. There was a moment – they could have – but they didn't and that was long enough for Cor to come back. I think they were trying to kill Aulea, and maybe a few of Noctis' friends. I think they weren't trying to kill us, they were trying to _hurt_ us – I think they were trying to make us freeze up, just like we have!"

Clarus doesn't disagree. Cor said the same about the daemons’ behavior, right after the battle – hollow-eyed and guilty but sure of himself as he always is when it comes to war – and while Regis dismissed his words at the time, too worried about Noctis to see past that, Clarus doesn't think he's changed his mind about it, and there's no one who knows battle the way Cor does. 

Clarus wouldn't have listened, either, in view of the evidence – Noctis was the only one hurt so badly – but Cyrella was there, too, his lovely warrior of a wife, and she said the same thing about the pause. Clarus reviewed the tapes himself, and reached the same conclusion: Noctis’ death was not the aim.

He hadn’t been sure what the aim was, except that he agreed that the daemons were far more aggressively pursuing Aulea and the other children – with intent to kill, the way they weren’t for Noctis. 

But it hadn’t occurred to him that the goal of it might have been to ensure their _paralysis_. It’s an interesting insight, and one worth serious consideration.

“But that still does not make it your fault, little Oracle,” Gentiana says.

Luna’s sobs start up again. “But it _is_ , Gentiana. I _saw_ him.”

Gentiana’s eyes narrow even as Clarus’ head goes up in interest.

“Him?”

“There was a ‘taur there, a leopard ‘taur,” Luna says. “Standing by the building, watching everyone and smiling – he looked like a _snake_ – well, no, snakes are nice, Iggy loves snakes –”

Ignis has in fact been petitioning for a pet snake for nearly a year now. Scientia is holding the line firm for the moment, but Clarus is concerned that she’ll crack and then everyone will want to play with the snake, and then next thing he knows Gladio will be asking for a snake of his own which - no. Absolutely not. 

“He had _shadows_ ,” Luna bursts out after a few moments of contemplation. “I should’ve said something – I should’ve _done_ something –”

Gentiana puts her hands on both sides of Luna’s face. “You have seen the Accursed,” she says. 

“I don’t know if it’s him,” Luna says miserably. “But I should have – if I had –”

“If you had, no one would have understood,” Clarus says, stepping fully into the room at last. Luna looks at him, and Gentiana as well – the latter clearly unsurprised by his presence. “It is not your fault, Luna. You did not understand, we would not have understood, and there was nothing that could be done about it.”

Luna swallows thickly. “You think so?”

“I know it,” he says firmly, coming forward and putting a hand on her back. Gentiana nods slightly in approval. “Noctis will heal, and we will move forward. If this ‘taur is the Accursed – and we don’t know if he was, remember; he could have just been afflicted with the Starscourge, as too many 'taurs are these days – then we have an advantage now: we might be able to figure out who he is. But his aims will fail, for we will not stop.”

“Won’t we?” Luna asks bitingly. “Have we made any plans to go forward for any other Covenants?”

Clarus hesitates. “Cor is still going off to obtain the Arms,” he points out.

“And Noctis isn’t being allowed to absorb them!” Luna shoots back. “It’s the Astrals that he’s worried about, clearly – he must have found out what happened with Leviathan, and that’s why he is trying to stop us, and we _are_ being stopped so it’s _working_ –”

“Noctis needs time to heal,” Clarus says, but it sounds weak even to him. 

“We’re not even making _plans_!” she exclaims. “It’s for a good reason – we all love Noctis, of course we do – but it’s _freezing_ us – it’s playing right into his hands –”

“That is not so,” Gentiana says, and there’s a strange sort of fierceness in her face. “Love for one’s friends is a strength, not a weakness – and your quest yet continues, even though you do not know it. Come, my Oracle; we will go to the Prince and you shall see.”

And with that, Gentiana begins trotting towards Noctis’ bedroom, head held high and Luna and Clarus drawn along inexorably in her wake. 

Clarus is – not entirely sure what is going on, actually. Messengers are only supposed to carry out the will of the Oracle – that’s why they’re called _Messengers_. Yet Gentiana is clearly not acting under orders from either Luna or Sylvia, but moving entirely on her own. 

Luna looks equally bewildered.

There’s noise coming from Noctis’ room.

Prompto is barking, “Snow! There’s snow!”

Clarus frowns as he enters the room right behind Gentiana. “What do you mean, there’s –” 

He stops, staring.

Regis points mutely out the window, where, in fact, there is snow. 

In _summer_. 

Aulea is staring. Cyrella is staring. The children are having paroxysms of joy – they’re all there, three guests dancing by the windows and even Noctis sitting up in the bed and clapping wildly, a giant grin on his face – and Nyx and Libertus and Hemera are sitting on the floor and staring, too. Baby Iris, currently in Cyrella’s arms, is not staring, but that’s because she doesn’t really care about much yet, being still a baby.

The only two people present _not_ looking out the window are Cor and Scientia, and they’re staring instead at Clarus and Luna.

No, not at them. At Gentiana, who is walking up to the bed, her eyes fixed on Noctis.

“Young Chosen King,” she says, and her voice rings in the air. The temperature in the room abruptly drops considerably, and Gentiana – changes.

_That is_ not _a Messenger_ , is Clarus’ first thought, as stupid a thought as it is – stupid, because he knows exactly who that is. 

Everyone knows that graceful form: the blue-tinted skin shining with an internal light until it glimmers white, the silver jewels and the silver hair, the purple lips and eyes, the pointed elf-like ears, the long graceful body of the Ceryneian Hind, the legendary White Hart that shines with the light of the silver moon upon the ice of the frozen river and the untouched field of newly fallen snow.

The Glacian.

_Shiva_.

“Young Chosen King, know this: you are lucky in your friends, who love you so,” Shiva says, and her eyes glow purple – and for just a moment, Noctis’ own eyes glow the same. “You have my blessing and my Covenant, young Chosen one. Now become strong once more and walk forward into destiny, knowing that you bear with you their love and loyalty: the greatest gift of all.”

She leans down and presses her lips to Noctis’ forehead, and then – really, there’s only one way to describe it – _explodes_ into a shower of snowflakes.

Everyone stares as the room slowly clears.

Shiva is gone.

“Wait,” Gladio suddenly says, breaking the silence. “Is _that_ why Libertus says ‘Glacian’s tits’ instead of –”

“ _Gladiolus_!” Cyrella yelps. “Watch your language!”

“Oh _fuck_ ,” Libertus says, then turns bright red. “Uh, I mean – oh _crap_ – no, wait –”

The entire room bursts out laughing. Somewhat hysterically.

“Three for three,” Cor says to Scientia. 

“What’s that mean?” Clarus asks, having edged over to them. Luna has thrown herself over to Noctis, who looks much better – healthier, bright-eyed, and much more animated than he has been, the fear of the attack seeping out of him as he glows with the remaining effects of the Glacian’s blessing. She’s talking avidly about Gentiana, waving her hands in the air excitedly. “Three for three Astrals?”

“No,” Scientia says, rolling her eyes. “Three for three Astral Covenants achieved through what Cor here has been calling ‘the power of friendship.’”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Clarus objects. “That’s only a thing in children’s stories or television shows.”

Cor looks him in the eyes. He solemnly lifts a finger. “Noctis’ lessons with Bahamut and, according to Luna, the covenant was achieved upon making friends with him through playing thumb war.” Another finger. “Leviathan with Prompto, jointly lecturing the goddess about being nice to people, as learned in kindergarden.” A third finger. “Shiva just said _explicitly_ that she was giving hers because Luna demonstrated how much Noctis is beloved. Ergo: three out of three.”

Clarus covers his face. “Oh Six,” he says. “We really are trapped in a children’s novel, aren’t we?”

“Did you really expect anything else from a Prophecy announced when Noctis was _four_?” Scientia says, then shakes her head. “Well, at least we can now start planning on going for either Titan or Ramuh next, and we don’t have to go all the way to Niflheim to try to commune with the Glacian’s corpse in the Ghorovas Rift.”

“Now that _is_ good news,” Clarus says, brightening. “Also, should – should something be done about the snow?” He nods at the window, where it’s still coming down.

“Yes,” Regis says, coming over to them. “We should.”

They all look at him.

He grins, looking younger already: still older than he looked before the accident, but not so old and tired as he has been looking these last few months. 

“I was thinking snowmen,” Regis says. “Or snowball fights.”

“Snow angels!” Noctis shouts from his bed, and insists on being taken out in his wheelchair for just that purpose. 

As they all head outside, Clarus hangs back to take a look at Umbra. "Good boy," he murmurs to the dog, reaching out to scratch him under the chin as he's found Umbra likes best, "you'd tell me if you're hiding anything like _that_ , right?"

Umbra barks and wags his tail, which Clarus _very_ sincerely hopes means 'don't worry about it.'

(He's really not sure he can handle another Astral hiding inside the _supposedly_ secured Citadel.)

* * *

It starts, like so many of these things do, by accident.

Apollonia Scientia is a lawyer by both profession and inclination; her career is, next to her son and certain recipes she developed herself, the pride and joy of her life. It provides her with fascinating factual scenarios, mysteries to delight her mind, and the opportunity to acquaint herself with a wide range of interesting people – her present circle of friends being among those. 

Apollonia does not deceive herself: she is not precisely the sort of person who makes or keeps friends easily. She is, by all general measurements, a genius: her brain moves fast (too fast) and she requires regular variety to feed it. Her conversation, when relaxed, has a tendency to jump tracks and speed ahead in what others have called a confusing manner; her alternative approach is slower, but has a tendency to come off (to others) as arrogant. 

This does not make her many friends.

But as to her career: ah! She is widely respected, and her advice is sought after throughout Insomnia, and even Lucis beyond. It is entirely satisfactory a trade for her, and she would not give away her unique way of thinking for the world. 

She will concede, however, that she sometimes has difficulty turning it _off_.

Usually this is quite helpful – she can work late into the night without complaint – but she has, at times, been found that others consider her to be something of a bore when she explains something quite simple in too complex or technical a manner. 

And she reads _everything_. 

She knows very well that it is rather impolite of her to buzz around other people's desks – shockingly impolite, really, enough to make her mind start murmuring about invasions of privacy and trespass law – but when she has made the mistake of forgetting her work tablet back at the office (she didn't _forget_ it, she lent it to Demetrius because he needed something with admin access and he hasn’t given it back, possibly in a misguided attempt to get her to relax - as if that's his responsibility as a junior partner, which it is most certainly not) and got herself settled in to watch the children with only a mystery novel to entertain herself (she finishes it in half an hour – very disappointing end, she guessed who it was at once and there was no proper set up for the culprit whatsoever), she find herself growing rather desperate for, well, anything to do.

"Would you like some help with that?" she asks Hemera Ulric, who is a charming girl (not as charming as her own Luna, of course, though really Apollonia must do better at remembering that Luna is not, in fact, hers) and who was kind enough to offer to do some of her paperwork in the playroom to keep Apollonia company. 

Hemera likes children a great deal. Apollonia – and she knows that it's rude – assumes that her deafness helps a great deal in this regard. 

Not all children, she has found, are as mature and voluntarily well-mannered as her Ignis. 

Hemera is also, however, rather awful at paperwork, so perhaps she came less out of a desire to help watch over the children than a far more reasonable desire to receive assistance – Apollonia helped her brother Nyx with his paperwork last week due to a similar boredom-related situation – and the theory is no sooner thought than borne out, judging by how quickly and gratefully Hemera hands over the documents.

It is a mutually agreeable situation: Hemera has the assistance she desires, and Apollonia has something to do, and they are able to sit in peace together to quietly supervise as the children play some sort of racing game (fourth edition, multiplayer, design-your-own-car – Apollonia has already read all the rules from the set-up guide, twice). 

At least Hemera's paperwork has the benefit of being far more interesting that her brother's: as an accommodation for her deafness, she gets transcripts of meetings (apparently people have trouble remembering to look at her and speak clearly, which doesn’t seem like it’s all that hard), and she apparently has a habit of printing out her emails to assist in filling out her paperwork. 

There’s no reason to read it all, of course, but Apollonia can’t resist her deeply engrained lawyer’s habits.

After all, one of the lesser-known aspects of law is, of course, the nigh-endless review of documents: listening to recorded phone calls, reviewing emails, checking meeting minutes, confirming calendars...nothing escapes the fine-toothed comb of the investigating lawyer, and no lawyer worth their salt (whether barrister, solicitor, or general lawyer) escapes the eternal grinding process of looking through thousands and thousands of them that constitutes a major part of the life of a young lawyer. 

Perhaps it's that experience. Perhaps it's intuition. Perhaps it's that genius brain, unable to turn off even in moments of relaxation. 

Whatever it is, Apollonia finds herself slowing as she fills in Hemera's weekly report – slower and slower – until she finally stops, the work incomplete. 

"Is there a problem?" Hemera signs at her, looking anxious. "Something I can help with?"

"No," Apollonia says, frowning down at the paperwork. She can't quite put her finger on what's bothering her – something about the meeting transcript, perhaps, since it's raw machine transcription of live events, not human-derived, and therefore less filtered. 

She has read many meeting minutes in her time, and even more transcriptions of phone calls. There's nothing _wrong_ here, no; nothing _obviously_ wrong. On a surface read, everything is just fine – even on a deeper read, one would be hard pressed to explain to anyone why there is anything problematic in here.

And yet.

Apollonia's experience has shown her that explicitly incriminating statements – smoking guns, as they're often called – are rare, and wrongful innuendo far more common. But, of course, identifying what, exactly, constitutes wrongful innuendo is a mighty task: people who know they are being recorded tend towards caution, though never as much caution as they truly need to have, and it is only through the intensive process of review and re-review that the truth can be gleaned by those with the wit (and the mandate) to find it.

This is assuming, of course, that there even is some sinister truth here to be had, which there might not be. The records are _fine_. There is nothing here that she can point to and say shows a definitive sign of a problem.

And yet.

Apollonia checks her watch – yes, good, it's just the time she thought it was – and belatedly answers Hemera's question. "No problem at all. Hemera, could you watch the children for a few minutes? I want to go ask someone a question."

"No problem," Hemera signs, looking deeply confused.

"And can I borrow these?"

"Go ahead."

Apollonia gathers up the paperwork and trots off, her hooves clopping on the tiled floor.

She finds Regis, Aulea, and Clarus in Regis' office, as she expected – they always retreat for a short planning meeting in between the afternoon sessions. 

They all look up when she lets herself in.

"I was looking through some Kingsglaive paperwork earlier," she says, forgoing both greeting and small talk. She's never seen the point in any of that; it does nothing but impede a person from getting what they want out of a conversation quickly and efficiently for the benefit of both sides. 

"You really need to stop doing their paperwork for them," Aulea says, because the Queen is very sharp and very observant. "They already like you, you know."

"I need something to do when I lack work," Apollonia says firmly. Sharp as she is, some things Aulea simply does not understand; the fact that Apollonia would never demean herself by trading work for friendship is one of them. The truth is, she really does get that bored. "Demetrius seems intent on not letting me take my cases out of the office; I suspect a plot. However, that is not what’s important here."

"Oh?" Regis says, pressing his lips together in a badly suppressed smile. "What is important then?"

"I would like your approval to start pulling documents for an internal investigation," Apollonia says.

They all blink at her.

"...into what?" Clarus asks. He's suspicious of lawyers. Apollonia can't blame him - as First Minister, most of the lawsuits against the government ultimately come to him to ask questions about government activity. 

"Is there something wrong with Hemera's paperwork?" Regis asks. He's sharp, too. 

"No, that's fine," Apollonia says dismissively. "It's inside the paperwork itself."

"What?" Aulea asks. "I don't think I understand."

"Did you find a problem?" Regis asks. 

"Not yet," Apollonia says. Whatever moments of hesitation she might have had, she had before coming to this room; she does not second-guess herself, as a general rule. "There's nothing in there that is explicitly problematic. But having conducted quite a few internal investigations, I think – I _believe_ – that there might be something in there."

"Something significant enough to do an internal investigation?" Clarus asks skeptically. "Those are expensive – disruptive – interviews and lawyers everywhere – bothering everyone -"

"I was thinking something a touch more discreet," Apollonia says dryly. "Emails, phone records, meeting minutes – focusing the initial review on documents instead of interviews. Minimal disruption involved: in fact, ideally, the individuals in question need not even be aware that an investigation is ongoing. And, of course, it may ultimately be nothing. I admit that I'm acting primarily on instinct."

" _Your_ instinct?" Regis says, arching his eyebrows. "My dear, that's as good as gold to me. You have my permission to proceed – Clarus, can you see to it that she gets what she needs?"

"Will do," Clarus says. Apollonia is pleased: his tone indicates that he does not disagree with Regis' decision, and Aulea is nodding as well. "You'll need to keep us updated with what you find –"

"If anything," Apollonia interjects. 

"- and _when_ you find what it is you're looking for," he concludes, arching his own eyebrows at her. She wonders if he got the expression from Regis or vice versa; regardless, his words are an excellent expression of his confidence in her (she trusts she will bear it out) that comes from their now years of working together.

"How expansive a review do you want to do?" Aulea asks, already focusing on the logistics. "The military generally? High level officers? One of the specific branches? Or –"

"The Kingsglaive," Apollonia says, and even as she says it, it feels right. She's on the right track, wherever that track may lead. "I want to investigate the Kingsglaive."


	15. 15

Noctis likes the Galahdians. Sure, they're a dozen years older than he is, but they have that stubborn island loyalty that Noctis really likes: Gladio saved Nyx's life, and Hemera's, too, and that means his friends are their friends, and there's nothing that will change that, not even the age gap. 

Even if Libertus never does actually figure out how to pick up the ability to keep from swearing.

(Noctis rather hopes he doesn't – they've learned half a dozen good ones from him so far, and his face turns a hilarious shade of red every time they start repeating them.) 

He rolls over – rolling! freely! No wheelchair, no pain, just the barest hint of weakness in his back; everything a 'taur could ask for! – and pokes at Gladio, who came to hang out today. 

It's just the two of them, actually. Luna and Iggy are helping cook dinner at home with their mom, and Prompto is out to visit the park with Cor since Cor is going to go out on another Royal Arms mission soon and Prompto wants to spend some time with him first, and that leaves Noctis to have some time alone with his oldest friend.

"Wanna get out of here?" Noctis asks. 

Gladio gives him a skeptical look that somehow conveys all of the extra two-something years he's got on Noctis. Just because he's already turned ten while Noctis is still waiting to get to his eighth birthday doesn't mean he's _wiser_ or anything. 

(Iggy is wiser, yes, but that's because he's _Iggy_ , not because he's older.)

"What?"

"I'm pretty sure we're supposed to be staying here," Gladio points out.

"Well, _yeah_ ," Noctis says. "We're _supposed_ to. But do you really want to stick around to overhear 'Do we go after Titan or Ramuh next', round 129?"

Gladio grins, and mimics his dad's voice. "Listen, Reggie, at least we know where Titan is, more or less –"

Noctis drops his own voice an octave, or at least as much as he can manage, to try to capture his own dad's deeper voice. "But Clarus, my old friend, Titan is notoriously stubborn – surely Ramuh, who is known for looking fondly upon 'taur kind is the better option –"

"Ramuh is as changeable as the storm; do you really want to be running around half the countryside looking for just the right tree with lightning marks?"

"Like an expedition to the Disc wouldn’t be just as obvious?” Noctis shoots back, then breaks character and starts laughing because his impression is just that good. “And – and it’s already – too late in the year for the Archead! We should wait –”

He’s laughing too hard to continue.

“But wouldn’t waiting for the Fulgariad be too time consuming, and anyway we don’t actually need to wait until the holidays, etc. etc. etc.,” Gladio says, starting to laugh as well. “Yeah, _no_. You're right, anything’s better than listening to that again. Where do you want to go?”

“We’ll stay inside the Citadel, don’t worry,” Noctis assures him. “Let’s go see what Nyx is doing!”

“He’s probably training,” Gladio says, not without envy.

Turns out, though, he’s not. He’s just lying in bed, looking vaguely mopey.

Noctis leaps onto his back. “Hi, Nyx!”

“Get off of me, you overgrown kitten,” Nyx says mildly. 

Gladio stalks up to the bed.

“Oh no you don’t,” Nyx says, starting to sound mildly alarmed. Noctis can’t blame him: Gladio’s bigger than Noctis is, and heavier, too. “Don’t you –”

Gladio leaps.

“Oof!”

There’s a small puff of fur into the air as well – winter shedding, mostly.

Noctis looks down at Nyx suspiciously. “Why are you lying in bed shedding your summer coat?” 

“Because my winter coat is growing in,” Nyx says. “Obviously.”

“It’s only the end of _fall_ ,” Gladio complains.

“And it’s already colder here than it gets in Galahd at any time of the year at all,” Nyx grumbles. “I’m gonna be the biggest marshmallow ever once I put on all of my winter coats – layers and layers and layers of them. You’ll have to roll me to training.”

Noctis giggles at the image of Nyx wrapped up in puffy coats and scarves and hats until he resembles a giant blueberry from the waist up, and those dorky hindquarter coverings and paw booties that ‘taurs with less furry hindquarters use sometimes when it gets too cold. He’d look like a sphynx ‘taur, all wrinkly and grumbling about the weather. 

“Why _aren’t_ you at training?” Gladio asks, flopping down next to Nyx. “Don’t you usually do that for fun?”

“Eh,” Nyx says. 

“C’mon, Nyx,” Noctis teases. “Don’t you wanna show us your magic?”

“Go away.”

“You should play with us.”

“I’m too tired,” Nyx moans. 

“Did you go out drinking last night?” Gladio asks knowledgably. 

“No!”

“Then –”

“I’m just _tired_ ,” Nyx says. “And grumpy. And I don’t know why.”

Noctis and Gladio look at each other. 

“Have you considered if it’s SAD?” Noctis asks. “Mom gets it sometimes, and Gladio’s dad, and even the Marshal – sometimes.”

“It is very sad, I suppose,” Nyx says, but he twists and blinks owlishly at the two of them. “And everyone gets sad sometimes.”

Noctis rolls his eyes and reaches over to bonk Nyx on the head. “ _SAD_ , not _sad_ , silly. S-A-D.”

“Seasonal affective disorder,” Gladio adds helpfully. “Less light means you get all grumpy and miserable. Affects some ‘taurs more than others.”

Nyx frowns. “You know, that might be it, especially since Galadh is so much brighter than Lucis…How do you fix it?”

“Light therapy helps,” Noctis says. “Or certain smells. Oh! And going outside and doing lots of activity.”

“I don’t really have any activities to do right now,” Nyx says. “We haven’t been assigned to any missions in nearly a month.”

“That’s probably the problem,” Gladio says. “You should get one.”

“Captain Drautos assigns the missions,” Nyx says gloomily. “And he’s got Libertus and Hemera out on scouting trips, while I’m stuck here on _Wall duty_ just because I _maybe_ ran ahead and rescued some people…against orders.”

“ _Again_?” Noctis asks, grinning. 

“Again,” Nyx agrees, flicking his tail mournfully. 

“You make a very good hero,” Gladio says, a little disapprovingly. He’s a Shield, so he understands, but he’s also learning how to be a general. “But not a very good soldier.”

“Unfortunately, there aren’t many jobs available for heroes,” Nyx says with a shrug, not disputing it. 

“Would you like one?” a voice drawls from the door.

“Marshal!” Gladio exclaims, leaping up to attention, even as Nyx yelps and does the same thing, albeit less gracefully because he had two children (not kittens!) on his back less than a few seconds ago. Noctis just lets himself tumble down to the floor, twisting to land on his paws, enjoying his regained flexibility. “What’re you doing here? Weren’t you out with Prompto?”

“I was,” Cor says, looking amused. “He’s out in the car. I was going to swing by your rooms – which, let it be said, these are definitely _not_ – after I’d collected Nyx.”

“Collected me?” Nyx says, looking hopeful. “For what? I thought you and Captain Drautos agreed that you wouldn’t be taking any of his Kingsglaive on Crownsguard missions anymore…”

“We did agree to that,” Cor says pleasantly, in that sort of pleasant voice Cor gets whenever he’s about to file a lawsuit or something. “Politics will be politics, unfortunately. However, oddly enough, though, there’s no provision in the Kingsglaive charter for Wall duty – that’s exclusively a Crownsguard job. Since Captain Drautos ever-so-kindly lent your services to the Crownsguard for the next few weeks by assigning you Wall duty, I thought I’d take advantage of that.”

“Thank Bahamut,” Nyx says, clearly opting to forgo the dig at his Captain. “Where are we going? I can be ready in ten minutes.”

“Hammerhead,” Cor says. “Overnight trip. Cyrella found a reference to a potential tomb in the Callengh Steps.”

“That’s a pretty big territory to cover. You think an overnight trip will be enough?”

“It’s supposed to be near the Longwythe Rest Area,” Cor says. “The Balouve Mines.”

“But we _explored_ those already!”

“Not at night we didn’t, and apparently that makes a difference,” Cor says. “Now – you said something about being ready in ten minutes?”

Nyx scrambles off the bed.

“Say,” Noctis says, looking at Cor thoughtfully. “Hammerhead really isn’t all that far, you know.”

Cor just looks at him, arching an eyebrow. He looks like he already knows what Noctis is going to ask.

“I’m just _saying_ ,” Noctis says, doing his best to simultaneously make big old kitten eyes at Cor and also appear strong and healed and totally mature. “Maybe you’d have better luck finding the tomb if I was in the area. Me being the Chosen King and all. Could be good luck.”

“Hammerhead is nearby,” Cor says. “Not ‘in the area’. And you’d be staying at Hammerhead.”

Noctis opens his mouth to argue more, but then Gladio grabs his arm. “He’d be staying at Hammerhead? Does that mean _we’re going to Hammerhead_?”

“I don’t see why not,” Cor says, his face still stern but his eyes dancing. “It’s pretty close and well-protected, and you need to get out of Insomnia sometime, even if only to show your overprotective parents that you _can_. And you don’t have school on Monday, anyway, which makes it the perfect weekend to go.”

“Awesome!” Noctis yips.

“We’d better take Luna,” Gladio says, beaming. “She’d kill us if we didn’t.”

“Trust me,” Cor says dryly. “I wouldn’t even _think_ of not taking Luna.”

Luna comes with them, which makes for a great car ride even if she _does_ end up going off with Cindy to go shopping and hiking and get a private tour of the garage – why she needs _another_ one after the perfectly decent tour they got the first time they were here, Noctis isn’t sure, but maybe Cindy came up with something new to show her – and anyway Noctis has Prompto and Iggy and Gladio with him.

Cid lets them stay up late playing arcade games and they even get to sleep in sleeping bags in the middle of the _garage_ , which is _awesome_. It’s practically like going camping!

“Sure it is,” Cid says, delivering another plate of cookies and mugs of hot chocolate to them when they’ve run out. “Just like camping. You boys telling scary stories?”

“Yeah! Iggy’s got a great one about a one-legged coeurl jockey!”

“Y’know, I think I first heard that one when I was your age,” Cid says, shaking his head. “Don’t you go staying up too late, now.”

(They stay up till midnight, even though they get really tired and nearly fall asleep a few times, and Cid doesn’t say a word about it. _Amazing_.)

And then the next day, Cor and Nyx come back from their travels with a fancy-looking bow that’s probably another Royal Arm and dragging a gigantic multi-horned creature’s head behind them, and they’re both covered in what looks like blood and mud and muck and smells even worse.

“Fucking Jabberwock,” Nyx is saying quite loudly. “ _Fucking Jabberwock_. Never again, Cor. Never a- _fucking_ -again am I going _anywhere_ with you, temporary commanding officer or no temporary commanding officer –”

“Not a fan of Costlemark Tower?” Cor says in that voice he gets whenever he’s pretending to be innocent to piss people off. “I thought it was quite nice – lovely architecture –”

“Marshal. I mean this in the kindest of ways, but I’m going to jabberwock your head in if you don’t shut up.”

“I _told_ you not to use fire,” Cor says. “Jabberwocks are weak to ice, not fire.”

“I _like_ using fire,” Nyx says mutinously.

“And what, exactly, did that get you?” Cor asks sweetly.

“…petrified and then vomited on.”

“Yes. Yes, it did. So next time, if I say use ice, you will…?”

“Use ice.”

“Glad we agree.”

“Fucking Jabberwock,” Nyx says again, though he’s glaring at Cor now. 

At least he seems happier than he was earlier.

Noctis sighs happily.

Prophecy or no Prophecy, this is totally the life.

* * *

"The storms are worse than ever," Regis says, looking out the window with a frown as the wind lashes the rain wildly against it. The third time this week. "And the harrying attacks from Niflheim have started up again – much faster than our intelligence agents predicted."

"Our intelligence agents also say they're over-extending themselves to do so," Clarus points out. 

Cor nods in agreement, as does Titus Drautos, the newest member of their little group. 

He joined only recently, his Kingsglaive having proved themselves a fearsome force against the Empire and the daemons; now that he leads a vital part of Lucis’ defense, it seems only right to explain to him why they make such strange decisions, such as sending out vulnerable prince Noctis on these expeditions outside of the wall.

Poor Drautos had been badgering them some time about it, suggesting that they keep Noctis somewhere safe; it got to the point that he was so persistent, so ever-present, that Cor had to distract him by finally agreeing to give him that one-on-one battle he had been not-so-secretly lusting after for quite a long time.

Cor won, of course – Regis’ Immortal is as fierce and furious as he has ever been, particularly when he is finally given a chance to go all out – and that subdued Drautos’ enthusiasm for a short while, but eventually Regis decided it was only fair and necessary to bring him in.

His own little war council, Regis thinks fondly: his and Aulea's and Noctis’.

Cyrella and Aulea are off with the children, and Scientia (as she so waspishly put it) _does_ have a day job, so they are absent, and technically Regis supposes that he should count some of the Galahdian Kingsglaive as part of the group, though their knowledge of the secret was more accidental than intentional. But they aren't strategic advisors, while Cyrella and Aulea and Scientia would be consulted in turn, but, as always – in the end – the final decision falls to Regis alone.

The King of Lucis.

It is a heavy burden, and he is glad that he has his friends to rely upon for aid and advice. This is a smaller council, of course, than the official Council, but then, many of those individuals are not 'in the know' about the Prophecy. 

After all, they don’t know where there might be a leak. 

"Even the over-extension of the Niflheim forces is still enough to cause us significant difficulties," Regis says, turning to regard his friends. "And there is always the matter of General Glauca."

Glauca – the monster in metal. 

No one knows where he came from, or, more disturbingly, where he goes – Clarus' best intelligence agents know nothing about him, other than the fact that he has been 'enhanced' with a suit of extremely resistant Magitek armor that covers him completely, and that his skill with a sword is second to none.

Well, maybe Cor. They've never had a chance to go one-on-one, the Immortal of Lucis and the General of Niflheim: whether through fear or only an abundance of caution, Glauca has never confronted Cor on an open battlefield.

No. That would be too _honorable_ for someone like Glauca.

Glauca prefers surprise attacks, guerilla raids, midnight massacres – the slaughter of innocent civilians as a means of sending a message. He prefers, whenever possible, that those civilians be citizens of Insomnia, but when those are unavailable he is more than willing to settle for citizens of Lucis, or even those that now live in the territories that fly the flag of Niflheim. 

Anything, as long as there’s blood paid.

Cor single-mindedly chased him through a battlefield once, hoping to confront him once and for all, but Glauca retreated before him – that particular day’s battle was in fact won that way, albeit barely. Even the addition of the Kingsglaive is only doing so much to stop his rampages.

Glauca –

"We could postpone," Drautos says, his steady voice interrupting Regis' reverie. "Wait until the storms die down, and the raids –"

"The Fulgariad is in two weeks. If we postpone preparations, we risk missing it entirely," Clarus objects. His own preference was to try the Archaean first, but Regis prevailed – he would rather send his son to seek help from the indifference of Ramuh than the stubborn resentment of Titan. 

Regis remembers how close it was, with Leviathan. They were arrogant, then – thinking that the Prophecy would give them success with that fuming goddess, that she would be more kindly inclined simply because of Bahamut’s word – and they very nearly paid the final price for that arrogance. 

Now that the decision has been made, though, Clarus isn't inclined to allow for delays – and Regis agrees. They want to use the holidays, each Astral's favorite day, to approach each Astral in turn and holidays come but once a year. And who knows what else the Accused would throw at them, given more time to plot?

No.

“It must be now,” he says, interrupting the small argument that has sprung up between Clarus and Drautos on the subject. “I acknowledge your concerns, Titus, and they are well-taken: but Clarus is right. We must proceed.”

Regis looks at them, his back straightening as he tries to impart how strongly he feels on the subject. “Noctis _must_ succeed in fulfilling the Prophecy,” he says. “It is not for me that I ask you to protect him, but for the sake of us all, and for the sake of the future itself. I do not know what will come with this new Covenant, but I wish you the best of luck – and I wish I could go with you.”

And oh, does he wish – but it would be too obvious, the King leaving Insomnia now, and with Niflheim’s raids, his absence from the city would not only be noted but would likely cause a panic. The same applies to Aulea: she’s been making her public rounds more frequently, and her presence is now reported on with the same breathless tone as Regis’. Normally he would object – 

But that tone is not merely tabloid fascination. It is _relief_.

The royal family represents safety. 

They cannot leave.

And yet – Noctis must go. The Astrals cannot be summoned like trained dogs, nor would Regis be entirely comfortable hosting any in the Citadel but Bahamut in his Crystal. 

So Noctis goes, and where Noctis goes, so too go his friends – a necessary cover, of course, because otherwise people might get suspicious as to the purpose of the trips. And, although Regis hates to think it, Noctis will be less of a target among a group of children his own age. 

Regis wishes he didn’t have to think in such terms: weighing risk, and determining that it would be worthwhile to trade the life of another child – not just a child, but the children of his friends – even to delay or confuse. But he is the King, and this is the fate of the world, and he has no choice but to make the hard choices when he must.

It’s not as though he’s cold-heartedly sacrificing them, he reminds himself, and yet, he wishes he did not have to even think of it. He wishes he could order them all to stay behind.

He wishes he could _go_.

But he can’t.

Cor and Clarus will go with them, of course, and the brilliant and ever-vigilant Scientia, and even Drautos has volunteered to go with them as well, saying with a faint smile that he didn’t dare miss the trip for fear of missing another event like the Hydrean’s blessing. 

Regis distinctly hopes it will _not_ be like the Hydrean – something a bit more anti-climactic like the Draconian or the Glacian would be nice. 

And if not – or if Niflheim interferes – 

Well.

They will all be there to stand guard. 

Regis cannot ask for better, and yet –

He feels uneasy.

* * *

In Ignis’ opinion, it started back during the Glaciad, though of course no one realized it back then.

Ignis recalls it precisely as it happened:

They’re wandering through the Festival of Hearts, the street fair that’s held every year on the Glaciad, all four of them and a handful of very discreet Crownsguard babysitters, and Noctis and Prompto are discussing what chocolates they want most: Noctis has a not-secret-at-all fondness for white chocolate, while Prompto loudly denounces it as a vile stain on the glorious name of chocolate (he prefers milk chocolate personally).

Gladio, meanwhile, is looking at the Lovers’ Candles on sale with a weirdly intent look.

“You know why we light candles on the Glaciad, right?” Ignis asks him, trying to start a conversation.

“Huh?” Gladio says, then looks at him. “No – why? Is it because it’s another winter holiday, like the Inferniad?”

“Close,” Ignis says, smiling. He’d rather have Gladio paying attention to his stories than looking at those Candles like he’s maybe thinking of getting one for someone. Maybe Invidius, in their class; he’s been leaving Gladio flowers on his desk for the last week… “Traditionally, the story goes that Shiva and Ifrit were mates, before the Great Astral War. And so, during Shiva’s day, she declared that mates – or would-be mates – should burn a candle with two intertwined wicks, letting the wax pool together, and it would give them good luck in their relationship. That’s why there are different candles for different stages of the relationship, too: crush-candles, and romance-candles, and relationship-candles, and mating-candles.”

“The Glaciad’s a nice holiday,” Gladio says thoughtfully. “Everyone’s happy – well, most people –”

“It’s not particularly fun to be single on, though,” Ignis reminds him. “Look at the poor Marshal – he doesn’t even want a mate, he makes that very clear, and still he spends every Glaciad either hiding in his house or running away from every eligible ‘taur that wants to take him out.”

Distracted from debating the merits of raspberry-filled chocolate by the mention of his guardian, Prompto adds in, “Cor’s wearing a T-shirt that says ‘no, I will not date you, go away’ this year. But we don’t think it’ll work.”

“Poor Marshal!” Noctis says, shaking his head. He also tends to get more than his fair share of Glaciad courting gifts, which he absolutely despises for the message they send – usually a message that he ought to start thinking about a future marriage. “It’s no fun at all.”

“At least you get plenty of chocolate,” Gladio reminds him. 

Noctis brightens. “That’s true!”

“People our year are starting to get each other Candles,” Ignis says to Gladio, because he’s an idiot who needs to know things even if he maybe doesn’t really want to. “Mostly crush-candles, of course. Don’t you think it’s a bit early for that?”

Gladio looks contemplative for a moment. “Maybe a bit,” he concedes, though not without one last glance at the stores selling Candles. Then his expression clears, and he grins. “Besides, we’re going to watch romance movies tonight!”

Noctis and Prompto groan, but Gladio is implacable – he loves romances of all sorts – and while Ignis never really got a chance to ask who Gladio was thinking of getting a Candle for, it’s fine because Gladio seems to entirely forget the business of Candles at all for the rest of the day. 

They go back to Noctis’ room for movies, because he has the best TV, and someone’s collected all of his candy for him – including a shiny box filled with white chocolates.

“Ooooooooh,” Noctis says, his eyes going avid. 

“You can’t eat all of it, Noctis,” Ignis says disapprovingly. “You’ll get a stomachache.”

“There’s only six of them!”

“You’ve been having chocolate _all day_. And you have all the others!”

“But I’m the only one who _likes_ white chocolate!”

“I like it too,” Gladio lies. Everyone _knows_ he’s lying, because while Gladio enjoys all types of chocolate, he particularly prefers dark chocolate. What Ignis’ isn’t entirely sure of is why he suddenly decided to utter such an outrageous lie. “Give me some, Noct.”

Noctis looks at Gladio for a long moment, then abruptly grins dazzlingly. “You can have the whole box if you like it so much, Gladio,” he says cheerfully, and shoves the box in Gladio’s hands. “Mom’s getting me some of those big white chocolate bars I like best anyway; she always does.”

Gladio looks taken aback, Prompto and Noctis are laughing, and Ignis reaches out to put a hand on Gladio’s arm in comfort. “Well,” he says wryly. “At least Noctis won’t be stuffing his face.”

Gladio beams back at him. “Guess so,” he says. “And, hey, at least unlike you and Prompto, I don’t think white chocolate’s the devil.”

Overcome by Gladio’s enthusiasm, Ignis decides not to ask why Gladio lied in the first place.

But then shortly after that Gladio gets a nasty stomachache, food poisoning that lasts for ages and ages, which sucks. 

Ignis wouldn’t have thought much of it – Gladio has a fairly iron constitution, but he also likes eating weird things, so it was bound to happen one day – except Prompto breaks his left forepaw a week later going sledding.

That, too, wouldn’t have been so unusual, except that Noctis _always_ goes first on the sled – he claims it's his privilege as Prince, and they all love teasing him about it – except he’d been whispering with Gladio about something as they’d trudged up the hill and then he’d decided to offer Prompto the first ride. 

Prompto is delighted by it, and jumps immediately on the sled – he likes anything that goes fast, and he likes gifts from Noctis best of all – but it turns out one of the sled’s skates is weaker than they thought, and it snaps halfway down the hill on the very first run, sending Prompto head-over-hindquarters the rest of the way down the hill.

It all gets pretty messy after that, what with getting Prompto to the hospital and patched up and everything, but that’s when Ignis starts getting paranoid.

“It’s not paranoia if they’re really after you, my dad always says so,” Gladio tells him, when Ignis tentatively suggests the idea that maybe the thing that gave him food poisoning was the mysterious gift of white chocolates so very clearly meant for Noctis. “We know the Accursed guy is after Noct, right? So it _could_ be. Keep a close eye on him for me, will you, Iggy?” 

Ignis stays vigilant, and discourages Noctis from doing some of his favorite things when it’s something that’s widely _known_ to be his favorite things, and there are a couple of other instances where he _thinks_ he might’ve prevented something - though of course it's impossible to be sure about a negative. 

But what really confuses Ignis is that none of these attempts would’ve ended up killing anyone, much less Noctis – at most, they’d make him sick, or hurt, or something like that. And he doesn’t understand why the Accursed would try something like that.

“The first attack was meant to paralyze us,” Luna says, looking thoughtfully at Mom after Ignis tells them his theories. They’re taking him seriously, like they always do, and he’s always appreciated it so very much. “Maybe that’s the goal again?”

“I believe that Regis’ first instinct upon finding out about the Prophecy was to pretend it wasn’t going to happen and to give Noctis as happy a childhood as possible,” Mom says thoughtfully. “It was only Cor’s involvement – and then my own – that encouraged him to take a preemptive approach. Perhaps the Accursed was anticipating having more time to put in place his own defenses?”

“But what would be the goal of it?” Ignis asks fretfully. As much as he appreciates how seriously they’re taking his suggestion, he does rather wish that his mother had just dismissed the notion that any of these accidents were aimed at Noctis so that he could go back to being calm. “None of these would be a _big_ delay – Gladio’s not allowed to do anything super stressful for a month, sure, but then he’ll be fine, and Prompto’s paw is going to heal up in about three and a half weeks –”

“And either of those would make us miss the Fulgariad next week,” Mom says with a frown. “And then, if there were another series of ‘accidents’ right before the Archead…”

“But that means they’d know which Astrals we have still to go!” Luna exclaims.

“There’s only so much you can do with security,” Mom says with a sigh. She’s working on one of her Super Top Secret Investigations again, with all of her little lawyers sworn to secrecy, and that always gets her thinking about security measures. “I’m concerned about the Fulgariad trip, especially since I’m not coming with you.”

“What?” they both exclaim. They’d assumed she was.

“I had hoped to, and planned to, but the investigation is nearing a critical point,” Mom says. “And it would be – easier – to do the next stage when the Citadel is emptier. Less disturbance.”

“Less tipping people off that you’re onto them?” Ignis suggests. He knows his mother.

His mother smiles. “I’ve asked Cyrella to go in my place, and she’s agreed,” she says briskly. “In return, I’ll keep an eye on Gladio and baby Iris here – well, my paralegals will, and I’ll be on call if anything should come up – and she’ll be going with you to keep an eye on things.”

“That’s good,” Luna says. “At this rate, we might need her ability with a greatsword.”

“Indeed, but as much as I like her, she’s not as observant as I am. That means you’ll both have to be very careful,” she instructs. “If I wasn’t onto something – well. I _am_ , and I think it’s red hot, so I have to take advantage of this interlude. But I want you to be on high alert, both of you, and stick as closely as you can to the adults. Is that understood?”

They both agree very solemnly.

And yet –

Ignis worries.


	16. 16

Cyrella's driving with the kids today, Luna in the front seat and Noctis and Ignis in the back since neither Gladio nor Prompto were feeling well enough to make the trip. Personally, Cyrella's glad for it: fewer kids means fewer targets to keep watch over, in her mind. 

Poor little Ignis, though - he's an old ‘taur in a child's body, that one, and he's been distressed ever since the doctors decided against letting the other two kids come.

Maybe it's just that Gladio's not coming. 

Cyrella might not be the romantic that her husband is, or that her son is turning into, but she's not _blind_ to the adorable elementary school crush her son has on Ignis Scientia, or the rather bemusedly oblivious-to-his-own-feelings one that Ignis has back on Gladio. 

She hopes that baby Iris will take more after her own no-nonsense sort of approach to romance. Look at her and Clarus, after all: they met in a bar fight, she put him in his place and convinced him to swap to her side of the fight, and then she observed both that their fighting styles were fantastically compatible and that he possessed a very attractive set of shoulders and an equally stunning set of hindquarters, and, with that settled, she decided she'd marry him one day.

Oh, sure, he insisted on mailing her cactus flowers and roses for months with notes about how the combination of prickly spines and beautiful petals reminded him of her, which she found very charming, yes, but the _decision_ was entirely practical. 

At least Gladio and Ignis are a little less tooth-rottingly sweet than little Noctis and Prompto, who hold hands everywhere and proclaim at a moment's notice that they're going to get married themselves. Aulea is already entertaining herself by planning the ceremony. 

Of course, the second Cyrella gets the children all seated, the stupid car starts making a disturbing clicking noise the second she turns it on.

Annoying, yes, but it doesn't seem to be impeding the engine from turning on, and that's most of what Cyrella cares about. 

She starts backing out of the garage, but doesn't get more than a few seconds of driving in before she's interrupted. 

"Oh! Hold up! Stop the car!" Luna exclaims. "Turn it off again; I know what's wrong!"

And up and back out of the car she goes, popping open the trunk and fiddling around in there for a moment before she ducks under the car entirely.

"Something you learned from Cindy?" Cyrella asks dryly, resigning herself to an existence surrounded by adorable childhood romances and at least one lesbian love triangle.

At least her life isn't boring. 

"Yes," Luna says, emerging from underneath the car. She's a bit greasy now, but luckily she's wearing one of Scientia's old college jumpers over her pretty frock and the stains are not drastic enough for Cyrella to feel like she needs to make her go change. A bit of grease and dirt is good for someone of Luna's age, anyway.

Cyrella does note that Luna keeps exchanging meaningful glances with Ignis instead of blushing and spluttering the way she usually does whenever Cindy is brought up. "I've fixed it as best as I can for now," she says. "The way the engine was going originally, with that sound, the car would've broken down halfway to Hammerhead. As it is, we should make it to Hammerhead, no problem, but after that I'm not sure..."

"I'm sure we can swap out cars there," Cyrella says dismissively. Cid always keeps a few extra cars in the back; she'll take one of those. Cid will agree. Cid usually agrees when she asks him for things, even if he usually mutters something about marrying giants and swords longer than he is tall. Whatever; it's not _her_ fault that he's short. "Say, have you heard from that Galahdian girl, Crowe, recently?"

Ah, _there's_ the spluttering she expected. 

Cyrella finally gets the car out of the garage and drives happily onwards, smiling as Ignis and Noctis take up the banner of teasing, and thinks to herself that just maybe, her husband has a point with how amusing these childhood romances are.

* * *

Libertus kind of wishes Nyx and Hemera were here. 

Don't get him wrong – he's glad to get a chance to do some work outside the shadow of the Hero Twins! He loves them like his own blood, he does, as much as he loves that Crowe kid he's all but adopted and been adopted in turn by her parents, but damn if it don't sometimes get old with them all but cartwheeling into combat and coming out smelling like roses having saved another half-dozen lives or whatnot. Not to mention all the crazy shit they lead him into if he's not watching himself carefully – all good, useful missions in the end, but also generally crazier than coeurl gone cuckoo, by and large. 

So he's not necessarily upset about getting a mission of his own, y'know? 

It's just – maybe not _this_ mission.

There's the kids, for one thing – Prince Noctis, who's going to save the world, and little Iggy, who saved Libertus' own furry hindquarters and can't stop calling him Li-bear-tus no matter how serious the situation and who's ten times smarter than Libertus is ever gonna be – and Libertus just plain old isn't great with kids. He swears too much, which at least has the benefit of making them laugh even if he's pretty sure Mrs. Amicitia is going to murder him and leave his body in a ditch somewhere if he doesn't stop. He can't help it - he just gets really nervous because he doesn't know how to deal with them. Whenever there are kids, Libertus strongly prefers having people around him who actually know what they're doing. 

Which he guesses he has. After all, there’s the Marshal and the Shield and the Shield's wife who probably ought to be called the Sword based on the big-ass greatsword she usually has strapped to her back; they all _have_ kids, so clearly they’ve got to be half-decent at keeping an eye on them. It's not even his job to be watching the kids! It just makes him nervous, having them around; that's all.

There’s the fact that they’re (secretly) on a mission to go find _Ramuh_ and demand that he cooperate in some sort of Covenant which he may or may not be into, and Libertus might not be the most religiously observant guy on Eos but he still feels like that’s a bad idea – and if he didn’t, the storm would’ve made him think twice. 

Oh yes. 

And then there's the storm.

Now, Libertus is Galahdian, born and bred, so don't get him wrong, he's not afraid of no storm. Compared to the yearly hurricanes he's used to, especially the big ones like old Gordo that hit the year he was born and every ten years since, this endless rain and lightning and thunder is _nothing_. 

Sure, he's never been knee-deep in muck and mud quite like this, with the sky blacked out and no ocean anywhere in sight and daemons capable of coming from all around in every direction, right in the middle of a big giant looming forest that somehow feels so much bigger and older and more menacing than the jungles of Galahd. He's never had to hear the howling of wild creatures coming from every direction, so loud that it's actually competing with the sound of the wind. He's never had to drive down paved streets so slick with water that it's like they're considering becoming rivers because there's no ocean for the water to drain away into. 

He's used to seeing lightning coming in from the ocean horizon right before it rolls in and hits you, giving you at least a few seconds warning to go find shelter; he's never willingly gone out right in the center of a storm the way he's doing right now, walking into a bunch of flammable trees like an _absolute moron_ , with the rain coming down so hard it leaves bruises the whole time.

He's also never had to try to mount a goddamn Chocobo that don't want no bear on its back just as much as Libertus don't want to be on it, since apparently they're traveling into the center of the forest by Chocobo whether they like it or not. 

He's very firmly in the 'not' camp, himself.

"Do you require assistance, Li-bear-tus?" a very familiar voice asks.

Sure enough, it's little Iggy the egghead, and unlike Libertus, he's sitting just fine on his Chocobo, all curled up and dignified just like in the instruction manuals. 

"I'm fine," Libertus grunts, then reconsiders. He likes Iggy plenty; he might be a kid, but he's one smart cookie. "Actually, no. I can't get my balance on this damn bird."

"Well, you're a bear," Iggy says. "You have a good center of balance, unlike some of us – you don't need to try to sit side-saddle. I would suggest trying to settle straight down on the saddle, lying on your belly the way you would for a motorcycle, with your legs hanging down on either side."

Libertus tries it, and sure enough it works a lot better than the elegant sprawl all the cats are doing. "Thanks, kid."

"My pleasure," Iggy says. "You'll be one of the ones helping guard us, right?"

"I'm actually just assigned to be look-out," Libertus explains. "I'm bringing up the back, just off on the right wing –"

"That's fine," Iggy says brightly. "We'll ride over and find you once we get going; that'll be far more interesting than listening to the adults complain about visibility."

"What? No, wait, you don't –"

"Oh, I know we don't _have_ to. We want to. See you later!"

Iggy clicks his hooves and somehow that works to get his Chocobo moving, and Libertus can't figure out the equivalent fast enough to catch up with the kid long enough to explain that they're supposed to be in the center of the pack for their own protection, damnit. 

"Oh, Lord of the Storm," Libertus moans, rubbing his eyes. This is a disaster – they're going to come find him right on the edge of the group, and then they'll refuse to leave, and then they're all going to get attacked by daemons, and die, and it'll all be _Libertus' fault_...he’s gotta do something to stop this. "Hey, Pelna!"

Pelna, a canidaetaur refugee from Niflheim and brand-new Kingsglaive member who somehow manages to be even younger than Nyx and Hemera and twice as cocky, which up until he'd arrived Libertus had thought would be impossible, turns to blink at him. Or maybe he's blinking the rain out of his eyes. Whatever, either way, he's listening. 

"Can we swap positions?" Libertus asks urgently. "You're leading the right flank, yeah? Advance position? The storm's got all this muck up, and one look-out post's as good as another, innit?"

"Except for the part where the front lead is expected to see fighting and the back isn't," Pelna points out with a slight grin, but then he shrugs. They've all had plenty of opportunities to get in the thick of it for fighting recently. "Any reason for wanting the swap?"

"Looks like the route's going to take us around the lake – swamp – body of water, whatever – and the only thing worse than wading next to a pond in a storm is being the heaviest guy around wading _after_ everyone's had a chance to rip up the earth with their paws to make it easier for you to sink." This is true, even if Libertus had already mostly resigned himself to it. 

He can't tell Pelna that he's trying to get away from some kids because he gets itchy when he has too much responsibility over anyone under the age of reason. That would just be embarrassing. 

Pelna sniggers. "Yeah, good point. I don't mind swapping this time, if next time you let me swap with you when I want the better position. Should we clear it with the Captain?"

"Why?" Libertus asks with a shrug. "You know he doesn't care who does what as long as everyone knows where they are and what they're doing at crunch time; that's why we're all trained as all-around fighters. And you know how he's always going on and on about how they don't give us enough Kingsglaive to make allowances for personal comfort..."

"You mean right after he's complained that we don't get treated as good as the mostly Insomnia-born Crownsguard, and right before he starts implying that they think we're expendable and disposable pieces that can be swapped out at will?" Pelna jokes. He's been in the Glaive long enough to be familiar with their Captain's occasional diatribe. "Sure, I know. He usually throws in a few compliments about how flexible and multipurpose we are in there, too – but, you know, he doesn't like it when you swap once something's already started..."

"Would you really consider us to have 'started'?" Libertus asks, looking around him pointedly. Everyone's still struggling with their Chocobos or their clothing or their bags or _something_. Nobody’s exactly what anyone would call battle-ready. 

Pelna laughs again. "Yeah, point. Sure. See you on the other side."

Then he, too, clicks his Chocobo into motion and is off like the wind. Damn, Libertus really needs to figure out how to get his own bird moving like that.

Maybe not exactly like that. A slower version would be much more his speed.

Well, at least he can comfort himself with the knowledge that he's avoided the problem of lagging behind and losing the kitlings. 

"How," he says flatly two hours later, two adorable children beaming up at him from atop their Chocobos and under their little ponchos, umbrellas having been rendered useless by the wind. "I'm not even..."

"We checked there first," Iggy says, wincing a little as a giant roll of thunder comes in. "And Pelna said you'd be here, so we came here."

"I don't think you should be this far forward," Libertus protests. "At least at the old position, you were lagging behind, but this is out _front_ – it could be dangerous –"

Thunder rumbles again. 

"It's fine," Noctis says soothingly. "We asked the Marshal, and he said sure."

"Does he even know where I'm located – wait. The Marshal is _Crownsguard_. He doesn't even have authority over my position! That's why Captain Drautos came along, so he could supervise everything personally!"

"Yes, but Cor is the one ultimately in charge of guarding us," Noctis says, clearly unconcerned. "And he said we should go up front."

Another flash of lightning, and more thunder almost immediately. They're near the center of the storm, now.

Libertus frowns. That doesn't sound right - the Marshal is a terrifying figure who is highly unorthodox, but even he's not so unorthodox as to send the kids he's suppose to protect to the front line.

Unless...

"Did he send you to come to visit me?" he asks slowly, something niggling at the back of his mind. The Marshal is as famous for his bursts of intuition as he is for his battle strategy. "Or did he say go to the front?"

"No, he just said 'go to the front'," Iggy says, but he's starting to frown as well, seeing Libertus frown. "Why?"

Thunder again –

No.

Libertus is Galahd-born.

He knows thunder: he was born in the storm. The sound of thunder lulled him to sleep as a kit.

That?

That is not thunder.

That's the sound of a _bomb_.

"We're under attack!" Libertus roars, his voice barely audible over the heightened storm, but strong enough to make it through to the next few bedraggled-looking Kingsglaive, whose heads rise up in alarm as they turn in the direction he's pointing – back towards the main convoy, an attack from behind where they hadn't been expecting one.

Shit, that's not far from Libertus' old position – Pelna's there! He needs to get there –

No. He needs to protect the kids.

"You need to get away from the fighting," Libertus tells the kids, who suddenly look scared and far, far too young. He leaps off of his Chocobo and lets it run free, then turns to help the kids off of their own before the Chocobos can start panicking and running off with them, though their Chocobos end up standing there placidly and pecking at the nearby trees. Maybe he really did get the nerviest one of the whole bunch like he'd been suspecting. "At least you're in the front, not the back where the fighting's happening –"

They _were_ in the back, though, before. They'd gone over to the back to hang out with Libertus and they only came up here to the front because – oh, thank Leviathan's many-ridged fins that he swapped with Pelna at the last minute, or else the kids would be in the center of the fighting right now.

"Wasn't that where you were supposed to be?" Noctis asks, eyes wide. 

Libertus is about to agree, assuming that Noctis is expressing relief that they're not there and Libertus isn't there and therefore relatively safe, as these things go, when Ignis speaks, his eyes equally wide but his face far more despairing.

"Someone _knew_ ," he says with horror.

"What?" Libertus asks, attention pulled away from the battle – unwise, he knows – by the tone in Iggy's voice. 

"You're the only grown-up here that we'd want to hang out with, other than Gladio's Mom and Dad and Cor and they were being boring," Iggy says woodenly. "You're the obvious choice for us to go spend time with. Someone figured out where _you'd_ be, and knew that we'd probably come to see you. And then they set up the attack so that it'd come to where you were supposed to be..."

"You're being paranoid," Libertus says, but his heart isn't in it. It's certainly possible – if the Niffs figured out a way to spy on them, if there's a traitor - it's not like his friendship-by-proxy with the kitlings isn't pretty well known, a subject for plenty of teasing in the Kingsglaive – it's _possible_ –

Well, it doesn’t matter. Figuring out what happened and how is way above Libertus' paygrade. Right now, his job is straightforward: normally, he’d go into battle to support his friends in the Kingsglaive, but that’s clearly the wrong thing to do now. He needs to stay with Noctis and Iggy. Protecting them is the highest priority –

Libertus sees the shine of metal in the middle of the field shining bright as it reflected the next crack of lightning.

Glauca!

Oh shit.

Shit, shit, _shit_. General Glauca himself here in person, despite the fact that he knows that Cor is here – that means they must know about them, somehow; that means the Niffs are clearly here to get the kids – and if they _do_ have a spy, then they’ll know the kids are with _him_ , and it won’t take long for them to figure out that he swapped with Pelna – and then –

"They think you'll be next to me," Libertus suddenly says. "That's what you think, Iggy?"

"I'm sure of it," Iggy says. 

Iggy's smarter than Libertus will ever be, for all that he's so much younger. Libertus is going to have to trust him on this.

“Okay,” he says, looking at the kids. “They think you’ll be next to me. So I’m going to go west, to the outskirt of the forest, and I’m gonna take your Chocobos –” Thank Ramuh’s feathery ass, they picked ones with distinctive colors. “– so that they think you’re with me and come my way, after me instead of after you, okay?”

They both look at him, wide-eyed.

“That means you’re going to be on your own,” Libertus says. He doesn’t like the idea, leaving kids on their own like this, but if he can keep Glauca distracted and far away from the kids, even for a little bit longer while someone manages to get out a call for back-up from the reserve units that were trailing behind them, it’ll be worth it. Glauca is a _monster_ – he wouldn’t hesitate in attacking children, not for a minute. Their only hope will be to keep ahead of him. “You go into the forest, and go to the ground – or into a tree, whatever – just _keep away_ , okay? Keep away from _everyone_ , except for the Shield or his wife and the Marshal, okay?”

If there's a spy, then those are the only people he knows for sure must be safe; they've been friends with the King for years. 

The kids both nod.

They're so brave.

“Good luck,” Libertus says, grabbing the reins of the two kids’ Chocobos – he doesn’t care about his own, but it's come back through the brush and seems inclined to follow him anyway. Whatever, that'll help with the illusion, and the low visibility due to the storm will only make it harder for anyone to know the truth. “See you on the other side.”

And off he goes.

* * *

Ignis and Noctis stumble through the dark forest, the storm above their heads, the leaves barely blocking them from the pouring rain.

“We should find somewhere to stop,” Ignis says through chattering teeth. He bundled up well for this trip, but the combination of fear and increasing wetness is not conductive to a nice, warm, happy child. Not to mention the fact that his glasses are covered in raindrops, which he hates. “Noct, do you think…?”

He trails off. Noctis is definitely moving in a particular direction, whereas Ignis was under the impression that they were simply moving _away_. Ignis hurries to catch up.

“Where are we going?” he asks.

“The right way,” Noctis says, his eyes fixed in the distance. “Can’t you hear him?”

“Who?”

Noctis points.

Ignis looks, squinting.

“Is that - _Umbra_?” he yelps. Why would one of the Oracle's Messengers be here? He thought they'd remained back in Insomnia. “What – is Luna around?”

“No, she’s back with the others,” Noctis says. “She tried to summon Ramuh for us when the fighting started, but Umbra says that she says there wasn't any need: with the storm, he already knows we’re here. But it’s okay; Umbra knows the way and we should follow him.”

“The way to _what_?”

“The runestone,” Noctis says.

“And what,” Ignis says, maybe a little testily, “in the name of Ramuh’s pinfeathers are _runestones_ , exactly?!”

Noctis actually stops moving for a second. “Uh,” he says. “I – I’m not actually sure.”

Ignis crosses his arms and scowls at his friend. 

"What?" Noctis says defensively. "Umbra's a _Messenger_. We can listen to him!"

"The fact that someone – even an adult, or a Messenger, or _anything_ – says something, doesn't mean you have to listen to them, Noct!" Ignis exclaims. "You're the Prince! Plenty of people will try to tell you things, and it's up to you to figure out what you think about what they're saying. You're _eight_ already. Hasn't school taught you anything? _Look before you leap!_ "

Noctis looks appropriately abashed. "That's a good point," he says. He reaches out and takes Ignis' hand in his. "I don't know what I'd do without you, Iggy."

Ignis sniffs, somewhat appeased. "Probably be rude to everyone you meet, most likely."

"You and your _etiquette_ ," Noctis teases, but then looks after Umbra's waiting form. "I do think we should follow Umbra now, though."

"All right," Ignis says. "I'm wasn’t saying we _shouldn't_. I just wanted you to think first, that's all."

Noctis smiles. "I've thought about it, I've thought about it. Let's go already." He tugs gently on Ignis' hand.

And so they go deeper into the forest, following Umbra's swiftly receding form. Ignis' hooves sink unpleasantly into the increasingly muddy ground, and Noctis' paws are only a little better for this sort of mucky travelling, but they force themselves to continue even as the trees get bigger and bigger and the storm darker and darker, the flashes of lightning and ensuing thunder more and more constant.

"Aren't storms supposed to move on or something?" Noctis grumbles as they reach a clearing.

Ignis tugs on his hand sharply, his eyes fixed elsewhere. 

Noctis looks at him.

"Look around you," Ignis says. "And up."

Noctis looks. 

Ignis sees the confusion on his face, and he also sees the moment that Noctis sees them in the trees. 

Birds.

Corvids of every sort, ravens and crows and more, crowding every branch, black feathers and beady black eyes fixed right on where Noctis and Ignis are standing. 

The Eyes of Ramuh. 

The _Wings_ of Ramuh.

"Now," Ignis murmurs, noticing that Umbra has disappeared entirely, "is the time for etiquette."

Noctis gives the slightest hint of a nod, and steps forward. "Greetings," he says to them as formally as he can. "My name is Noctis Lucis Caelum, Prince of Lucis and Chosen of the Prophecy of Bahamut, and I'm looking for the runestone of Ramuh so that I can obtain his blessing and complete a Covenant with him – and the Prophecy may be completed. Would you please show me the way?"

One of the ravens hops out of his tree and flies silently to the ground before them. It lowers its head, wings spread, almost like a bow – both Ignis and Noctis automatically bow back – and then turns and hops off further into the forest.

They follow. 

Ignis glances behind them as they go up a hill and sees a flash of silver metal.

Silver metal, moving – General Glauca!

He squeezes Noctis' hand. "We're being followed," he murmurs. "We need to go faster."

Noctis nods and they speed up, the raven leading them moving faster as well. It seems to be moderating its speed to theirs.

Still, they're just kids, with short legs and the tendency to tire quickly, and they end up slowing down again because that's better than running and having to stop to rest. Still, knowing that General Glauca is chasing them is pretty good incentive to keep going.

And then just when Ignis is sure that they'll have to stop and rest, no matter what, they reach another small clearing, this time against a cliff face, and at the end of the clearing there is the weirdest rock Ignis has ever seen.

Ramuh's temples are trees struck by lightning; everyone knows that. This is a rock in the shape of a tree, tendrils reaching upwards, and it's glowing faintly. 

"I think this is the runestone," Noctis says. "Carved by lightning strikes."

Ignis nods. He means to let go of Noctis' hand, to let his Prince go ahead alone to his destiny, but Noctis clings on tighter and shoots him a beseeching look, and Ignis just can't let him go by himself.

So they move forward together, clinging to each other.

They're almost at the tree when someone calls out Noctis' name.

They turn, and it's Captain Drautos, still some distance away from them, panting a little like he's been running after them. "Prince Noctis," he repeats. "There you are – I've been looking for you! You have to come with me. The Niflheim forces are too strong, too many. We have no choice but to retreat."

"But if we retreat, we won't have another chance until next _year_!" Noctis exclaims.

"Your parents would rather wait a year if it means that you'll be alive," Drautos says, and steps forward into the clearing, the silvery spots on his hyena hindquarters shining wetly in the rain. "Come with me, Prince Noctis. I'll see you home safe."

Ignis takes a half-step towards him, but Noctis doesn't, and Ignis looks back at his friend, whose expression has gone set with determination. Ignis takes back the half-step, moving back to stand at Noctis' side.

"Thank you, Captain Drautos," Noctis says, his voice clear and strong. He's made his decision, Ignis can tell; he’s not just blindly listening to what people tell him to do, just like Ignis advised him. Ignis feels a surge of pride: Noctis is going to be a great king, one day. "But I'm going to call on the runestone first."

And he turns and reaches out a hand to the rock-tree, both his hand and the tree glowing, even as Drautos exclaims something rendered inaudible by a sudden crash of thunder. 

And then the birds start screeching.

Ignis steps closer to Noctis automatically, his eyes going wide as the birds leap from the trees into the air – dozens of them, hundreds of them, thousands of them – and suddenly the storm-darkened sky is even darker with all of those black-winged bodies, so close together that they're indistinguishable from each other.

It takes a second for Ignis' eyes to adjust scale: it's only when Ramuh – because it is Ramuh, the Fulgarian himself, the 'taur whose body is made of the Stymphalian Birds, all of those birds coming together to metamorphose into a single figure: his mighty torso, swathed with robes, his long beard and sharp black eyes, his gigantic staff – starts to reach his hand down to them that Ignis suddenly sees him there.

The rock-tree has stopped glowing, as has Noctis; Noctis is staring up at the Astral and clinging to Ignis, and that's probably why Ramuh scoops them both up in his surprisingly firm and corporeal fist, lifting them up into the sky.

Ignis, looking down, can see Drautos staring up at them in shock for a long moment before running back towards the fighting, the quickly scattering MTs and a small group of Kingsglaive that were congregating in the area near the clearing, both heading in the direction that Ignis and Noctis had previously been - the two groups aren't fighting, so they must not have seen each other yet in the dark forest - and then Ramuh lifts up his staff with his other hand and throws it like a spear down at the runestone.

It strikes like a bolt of lightning. 

The flash is so bright, Ignis has to slap his hands over his eyes, right over his glasses, and by the time it finally fades and he can see again, they're not above the battlefield. They're somewhere totally different. No, that's not quite right, they're still hovering in the sky above a lot of marshy wetlands and dark forests, they're still under the same giant storm as before, so they couldn't have gone too far, but at the same time Ignis doesn't see any of their forces anywhere - no Kingsglaive, no Crownsguard, not even any MTs. 

Ramuh puts them down in front of a cave.

"Thank you!" Noctis shouts up at the Astral as he straightens up again, but Ramuh doesn't respond – he just dissolves back into those thousands and thousands of birds that all start flying off in different directions.

"What do we do now?" Ignis asks. "Into the cave?"

"Yeah," Noctis says. "I think – I think there might be something in there that I'm supposed to see."


	17. 17

Noctis can't help but smile when the first thing Ignis does when they enter the cave is clean his glasses. It's such an _Iggy_ thing to do, especially since Noctis knows he doesn't really need the glasses all that much, for all that Iggy swears he gets headaches if he doesn't wear them. 

Noctis is pretty sure that Iggy just wants to look super smart. 

But once that important work is done, Iggy squares his shoulders and takes Noctis' hand again, which Noctis really appreciates. He's so relieved that Ramuh picked them both up, instead of just him: he doesn't know what he'd do if he was here alone, without Iggy to stand by him and make him feel like he can accomplish anything if only he tries hard enough. 

He'd probably freak out and so completely embarrass Ramuh that the Astrals'd revoke the whole Prophecy deal.

Yeah, Noctis _wishes_ they would. 

"Let's go further in," Ignis says, and Noctis nods and starts leading the way. He has a sense of which way to go, somehow – it feels almost like the lessons he had with Bahamut when he was younger, actually, where he has a vague idea about where it's supposed to go and what he's supposed to learn but also the distinct feeling that he still needs to go and actually _learn_ it. 

He also, very suddenly, has the even-more-distinct feeling that this whole adventure was _not_ in Bahamut's script for things that Noctis needed to learn. This is Ramuh's show, right now, in the cave of his runestone and surrounded by his storm, and he's the one calling the shots. 

"Look at these walls," Ignis breathes in wonder. "I had no idea there were cave paintings in Cleigne!"

Noctis has never really much cared about cave paintings, but he knows he's here to learn _something_ , so he looks.

The paintings on the cave walls are beautiful, but they make no sense: it looks like an image of the Astrals at one point, but with their original human lower halves instead of their proper ‘taur hindquarters, and also there are machines of some sort, and giant cities – cities as large as Insomnia, if not bigger, based on the scale – and then even more machines, computers of some sort, some weirdly shaped cars that don't look long enough for a 'taur to lie their hindquarters down in...

Noctis frowns and walks over to the walls, reaching out a hand to try to touch one of the images - a bunch of humans sitting around a computer, looking very self-congratulatory.

“Noct!” Ignis yelps. “That’s a cave painting – it’s probably ancient – don’t _touch_ it –”

But it’s too late, Noctis has already made contact with the picture.

And then, suddenly, the entire cave wall surface – _ripples_. 

Ignis falls quiet.

“What just happened?” Noctis asks, taking a step back – the ripples are going up and down the wall of the cave, which _looked_ all craggy and rock-like a second ago but now looks flat, like a –

“ – screen,” Ignis says. “Noct, it’s a _screen_. Like a television screen – it’s not actually a wall, it was just projecting the _image_ of a cave wall.”

“It was a really good projection,” Noctis says doubtfully, because he’s got a really great TV and even his TV isn’t _that_ great. He reaches out and pokes the screen again.

It ripples again, and suddenly goes black, which is _weird_.

And then a video starts playing. No sound, just visuals. 

It shows them a giant city.

Ignis elbows Noctis in the side - quite unnecessarily, in Noctis' view. He's _already_ paying attention! “Look at the size of that,” Ignis marvels. “That city has to be three – no, _five_ times the size of Insomnia! And it’s filled with humans!”

That's definitely the most interesting part of it to Noctis, that's for sure - he's seen still images of humans before, of course, in his schoolbooks, but this is a much more high-def version of the weird bipedal thing they've got going on; Noctis has always wondered how they balance like that.

The video zooms out from the city next, which is a pity, and shows a map – not a map like Noctis has ever seen before, with Lucis and Niflheim and Accordo and Tenebrae and all of them, but a frankly _gigantic_ map of the world with all sorts of weird and funny shapes for the land and sea, gigantic cities marked in various places as points of light...except, no, that' can't be. If those points of light are meant to represent cities, then the scale of the map means...

“This must be Solheim,” Noctis says, staring. “The great unified state, the world-as-one. My history teacher _said_ that there was a lot more land, before the Great Astral War destroyed large portions of it – whole big continents all over the sea, lots of them, and they were lots bigger than the ones we have –”

The video zooms back in.

The cities are immensely technologically advanced, much more so than Insomnia is – and probably more than Niflheim, too, judging by how everything is mechanized: the cars drive themselves, there are servitor robots doing chores, food and clothing are all plentiful and widely available, factories to produce desirable products are entirely mechanized…it’s a paradise. 

And governing this paradise…

“It’s the Astrals,” Noctis says. There they are, the Six, rising up like benevolent guardians over Solheim.

But then the video stops, and very obviously goes back in time, the skyscrapers coming down and back to earth and the whole world going back: back when there were still humans working, directing the machines, producing the food, building the robots, and they look stressed and unhappy. That, the video informs them, is when there was a new Solheim government initiative announced: an initiative designed to eliminate the need for any humans to work, a way of finally achieving the full utopia they had all hoped for, and under this initiative they would be building massive artificial intelligences designed to govern the world as people knew it so that people need not worry, need not work, and could live their lives in leisure and pleasure and endless prosperity, creating and sharing art of all types.

There was considerable support for this program, the video announces; though there was some concern, of course, about the artificial intelligences glitching at some point, the existing government at the time guaranteed that safeguards were being put into place. Moreover, as an additional benefit, once the artificial intelligences were in place, the government itself could relax its remaining grip on the people, with the policing and judging all done by the objective and even-handed machines instead, with an emphasis on fairness and on rehabilitation, removing the prejudices and biases of other people from the process. 

And so the program went forward – a jumble of acronyms, something called the Artificial Strategic-Tactical Realtime Analytical Leadership units...

“They’re – they’re talking about the Astrals,” Ignis says blankly. “A-S-T-R-A-L units. Noctis – this video is saying that the Astrals are _artificial intelligence_. They’re - they're _machines_.”

“But that’s impossible,” Noctis says, equally blank. “Isn't it? They’re – they’re the _Astrals_ – they’re _gods_ –”

But the video marches onwards inexorably. The first ASTRAL unit becomes functional and projects an image of itself into the sky, an image that is instantly recognizable as Bahamut: he was meant to control war and all items of war, so as to ensure that the bombs and weapons and all the rest did not fall into extremist hands. Not that there was war to fight, of course, given that Solheim was united and at peace, but should there ever be one, the government assured the populace that it would be fought by machine rather than risk the life of man. 

And so there was Bahamut, who would be in charge of war, and of police, and of judgment. 

The government advertisements, as depicted in the video, stated clearly that they were programming him with the strongest ethic systems they could devise, making his highest priority the service of humanity, and he was put into operation, the picture of the fully-armored knight with the many swords appearing at each courthouse and police station as they shifted away from human fraility and into the safer world of automation.

And it _worked_. Bahamut the Lawgiver, as they know him: he did not have human biases, yet his programming was sufficiently advanced that he could temper the stern justice of the rules with the mercy of circumstance, and his focus was simultaneously to achieve peace for the victims and rehabilitation for the perpetrators. Bahamut the God of War: who could demonstrate the strength of the armies of the world to show the people that they were safe, yet could be trusted not to use them against humanity. 

After the success of Bahamut, the government went forward and created Titan, the laborer: he took over the factories, the means of production, and from his work there were startling leaps forward in efficiencies. No longer did humans have to toil to create beautiful garments or piece together cars or even supervise the worker robots: they could devote themselves to the question of design, should they want to, or even merely to consumption. No more shift scheduling, no more delays: errors could be fixed immediately, without effort.

Next, the government moved on to their next major priority: weather and climate. Solheim, in its pursuit of technological success, had sacrificed much of its natural resources, dirtying its skies and polluting its oceans; it was of utmost importance to set about fixing that so that people could enjoy the fruits of their paradise without such concerns. The power of nature was immense and difficult to handle, endlessly complex, but the people of Solheim did not let that stop them: when one ASTRAL was found to be incapable of the immense task, they created two.

One to govern the skies, to moderate the complexities of the weather, to ensure that crops received the rain and sun they needed to grow, forestalling the worst effects of the uncertain climate and accompanying disasters, while also ensuring that people in cities enjoyed a pleasant variety of days – capable of developing microclimates for when people requested a sunny day for their wedding, while their neighbors enjoyed a snowstorm, and the people down the block a nice rainy afternoon. Ramuh, the Storm-bringer.

The other to tend to the difficult business of the environment: the filtering of the polluted oceans, the cleansing of the dirtied sky, the maintenance of the ozone layer and the artic poles, the preservation of the last reserved places, the rejuvenation of forests and the prospering of both agriculture and wilderness. An endless, thankless task that left the people of Solheim free to continue to pollute and to use and abuse their world at will, knowing that they could rely upon the machines to clean up their mess.

Leviathan. 

The enraged goddess, who hates humanity. 

“Can’t say I blame her, with a thankless task like that,” Ignis murmurs. “Though I do wish she wouldn’t take it out on _us_...”

And when those monumental tasks were done, Solheim turned at last to the business of _pleasure_ : the final steps for creating the utopia in which no one need work, no one need govern, and all people live in peace. 

They created another pair of ASTRALs for the purpose, interrelated in their purpose and united in their aims. These were by far the most complex of all the ASTRALs, well outpacing those that came before them, for their business was more than justice, more than building, more than commanding the capricious weather or even guarding the world. 

They were the _coordinators_. 

The last two ASTRALs represented a front-end and a back-end to the project of human happiness. For the front, it was the cheerful, beautiful and kind face of the Glacian, Shiva, who served as the communication point of contact for humanity – the small figure that appeared on their phones, in their computers, in their vehicles, the kind voice that was always happy to be of service, the mysterious figure that they told what they wanted: their hopes and their dreams, their desires and purchases and everything. 

She had many names then, but her purpose was the same: the gentle listener, the kind helper, the blue fairy who makes your life easy and your dreams come true. 

And Shiva – so bound up with communication and coordination of all of these wishes, the Lady of Humanity too busy with her task to actually accomplish the difficult task of actually fulfilling those wishes herself – sent those requests on to the back-end.

To Ifrit, the God of Material Pleasure. 

It was he who made each household function as it ought to, hot where people wanted hot, cool where they wanted cool, lights flicking on when someone was entering, toys fixed as soon as they broke, the flow of electricity never interrupted for more than a few moments; it was he who guided the cars through the maze of traffic to ensure that everyone reached their destination without stress or concern; it was he who arranged that the movies and art and music that humanity now focused on could be distributed throughout the world to everyone who wanted to see it, while Shiva presented viewers with lists of suggested interests and curated playlists. 

It was Ifrit that made the trains run on time, both literally and metaphorically: Ifrit who took the place of the so-inefficient humans of the government, who provided people with the official papers they required, who approved their applications and sent them to Bahamut to be wed, who arranged adoptions and enforced housing codes and everything else, all behind the scenes. He coordinated with the other ASTRALs to ensure that Bahamut’s policing did not interfere with the work of Leviathan and that Leviathan’s crops and energy generation were adequate to power the work of Titan and that Ramuh’s own work did not bother the others’ and finally that all of that work did not interfere with the simply daily pleasures of humanity.

And with the ASTRALs as their loyal guardians, Solheim dissolved its government and resided in perfect peace.

“I don’t believe this,” Noctis says, scowling at the screen. “ _Nothing_ is perfect. Ever.”

“Clearly government propaganda,” Ignis agrees, though he looks wistful. “No mention of extremism – religion – personal disputes – and anyway, what about people who _enjoy_ working? My mother would go mad.”

“Seems suspicious to me,” Noctis agrees. “What happens next?”

The video shows them.

Perhaps unsurprisingly, humanity did not simply settle into unending joy: there were protests, petitions, extremism, existential despair – complaints upon complaints upon complaints.

No one in the former government wanted to deal with it, so they just gave more power to Ifrit and told him to deal with it. “Fix this,” they said, “fix that” and so on – endless demands, until Ifrit at last pointed out that he could not do more: his programming forbade making such major changes without humanity to hold his hand, to do that last bit of human-required work that his makers had installed as a safeguard.

But the people of Solheim didn’t want to deal with it, so they gave him the power to adjust his own programming to deal more efficiently with humanity’s desires.

“Well, _that’s_ going to go well,” Ignis says, rolling his eyes. 

“Shh, no spoilers,” Noctis teases. 

“It’s been _two thousand years_ , Noct. The fact that Ifrit starts the Great Astral War isn’t a _spoiler_.”

The video continues onwards, and sure enough, Ifrit’s dissatisfaction grows and grows and he tweaks his programming to grant himself more independent thought and more free will and –

“Could we get to the part where he rebels before I turn twenty?” Noctis asks the screen politely.

Okay, maybe not politely, judging from the elbow Ignis buries in his side.

But the video speeds up, zipping forward to Ifrit requesting access to Bahamut’s planetary defense system, purportedly in order to arrange an artificial meteor shower to impress the people, and instead using it to bring down a shower of meteors _on Solheim itself_ – explosions, massive ones, resulting in death tolls so high that it’s like a video game gone horribly wrong.

Luckily the video doesn’t go into much depth in that, nor does it show the details, going straight to the Six arguing with each other over Ifrit’s actions, Ifrit defending himself and denouncing the humans, Bahamut stern and accusing, the avatar of justice, Shiva weeping, Ramuh indifferent, Titan and Leviathan angry, so angry, but uncertain of where to go. And little by little, it shows Bahamut winning the argument, and the Astrals coming to stand by his side, turning against Ifrit.

It shows Ifrit becoming enraged.

“And then there was the war between the Astrals,” Ignis says flatly before the video can continue. “Lots and lots of people died, entire continents were bombed out of existence, technological progress was destroyed to the point that our phones and computers and cars are mere pale echoes of what they had, and when Bahamut activated his weapons of war – nuclear and otherwise – the side effects ripped the world apart, turning people into ‘taurs, and the whole thing only ended after Ifrit summoned a giant meteor down to destroy the entire planet but Titan caught it in his arms and the other Astrals decided to kill Ifrit because they thought he was too dangerous. We know this story. We don’t need to _watch_ it.”

“Ignis!” Noctis exclaims, a little shocked. “That wasn’t very polite.”

“Forgive me if I don’t want to watch a bunch of humans _dying_!”

The video speeds forward again. Ifrit is killed, so to speak, and the code that created his persona consigned into deep storage, its memory corrupted. The other Astrals return to their duties, transforming into ‘taurs to match ‘taurkind, which they continued to serve in their respective roles. 

And then the scene changes. It shows a small ‘taur figure drawn in stick figure form, and he’s glowing, and then he points at something and the Astrals – also ‘taurs – show up and destroy it.

“What’s that last bit mean?” Noctis asks, frowning.

“I don’t know,” Ignis says.

The video replays the scene, and then fades back to black for a moment, before the cave wall with its no-longer-so-confusing paintings reappears. 

“Huh,” Noctis says. “I guess – that was the end?”

“I didn’t understand the last bit,” Ignis says, scowling. He hates not understanding things, as Noctis is well aware. “What do you think it meant?”

“I’m not sure,” Noctis replies, but his attention is already gone – the wall behind them, the one across from the screen, is also shimmering, and then it disappears, only to reveal another weirdly shaped rock-tree, just like the one in the forest. A second runestone!

“Iggy,” he says, and Ignis turns and blinks. 

“Well,” he says. “Whatever that last scene meant, at the very least I think we’ve achieved what we were meant to achieve. In a helpful visual format, no less.”

“Who do you think made the video?” Noctis asks, approaching the runestone but being very careful to keep Ignis’ hand in his. If Ramuh is going to show up again, he wants to make sure Ignis gets pulled along with him.

“Given that we just learned that the Astrals are actually _artificial intelligences_ ,” Ignis says, sounding a little disturbed, “I would assume – Ramuh himself. Clearly drawing from Solheim-era government propaganda as the source material, except perhaps for that last scene; it was an entirely different style.”

Yeah, that sounds right to Noctis, if very worrying. What lesson is he supposed to be picking up here?

“Guess he figured the after-school special approach would be the best way to pass on a complicated message to a pair of kids,” Noctis offers, unsure what else to say. If Ramuh did make that calculation, he’s…well, he’s probably not wrong. Noctis probably would’ve picked up some of Bahamut’s lessons a whole lot faster if they’d been in video form. 

With that thought, and no further reason to delay, he reaches out for the runestone and starts to absorb its power.

* * *

Ignis waits for Noctis to finish gathering the power of the second runestone, thinking about that mysterious final segment of the film.

“Noct,” he says after Noctis is finished shaking his head and patting down his fur, which has gotten all fluffed up with static electricity. It's not exactly very dignified - Noctis looks like a put-out puffball - but Ignis isn't going to be the one to say as much. “Have you ever heard of a summons?”

“No,” Noctis says. “What’s that?”

They both start walking back towards the entrance of the cave. 

“I read about it in a book once,” Ignis says. “When we were looking up everything we could about the Astrals’ blessings and all –”

“You mean you were,” Noctis says, grinning. “We mostly stuck to the kids’ section. You went into the adult section.”

Ignis smiles a little, not denying it. It’s true, after all. “Anyway, I read a book that said that a person who received the blessings of an Astral could thereafter summon them to assist them in battle.”

“What does that mean, assist them in battle?” Noctis asks. “Like – tag-teaming in a fighting video game?”

“I think it’s more like a very powerful back-up weapon, available in times of dire need?” Ignis suggests. He doesn’t play video games as much as Noctis and Prompto and even sometimes Gladio do – he prefers his books.

“So, like a one-hit K.O. weapon, but you can only use it when you’re in trouble,” Noctis says.

“...I think so?”

“You think _I_ can do that?”

“Well, you _are_ the Chosen King, so it seems reasonable. It’s possible that that was what the last part of the video was trying to show you,” Ignis says. He hesitates, because there’s a bit more, but he’s not sure –

“What else?” Noctis asks. “C’mon, Iggy; I know you too well. What else do you think?”

“I think that Ramuh was trying to warn you,” Ignis says in a rush. “Once you become the Chosen King, you’ll be able to summon the Astrals that have blessed you to help destroy your enemies – but he showed you what happened with Ifrit to remind you that you’re being given a _lot_ of power here, and that you should be careful with it. Just because they’ve blessed you doesn’t mean they’ve given up all autonomy.”

Noctis considers this for a long moment. “That makes sense,” he finally says. “They’ve been free to do what they’ve wanted for so long – I can see why they’d be hesitant to put themselves under anyone new.” He frowns. “I wouldn’t _want_ to force them to do anything, anyway!”

“Of course not,” Ignis agrees. “ _I_ know that. But maybe Ramuh just wants to be sure, you know?”

They come out of the cave. It’s still pouring rain, howling wind, flashes of lightning and crashes of thunder. 

Worse, however, is the dark outline of Niflheim airships making their way over the forest, spotlights shining down on the ground below. Searching. 

Searching _very close by_ , in fact – at this rate, it would be only a few minutes before the spotlights found them.

Ignis coughs a little and leans closer to Noctis’s ear. “I think now might be a good time to try one of those summons,” he says. 

Noctis nods and focuses, then hesitates and looks up at the storm. “Even if I could summon you, that doesn’t mean it’s polite,” he says. “And Iggy's always on my case about being more polite, so I won’t – but I’d _really_ appreciate it if one of you could come help us, please?”

He pauses, and for a long few moments nothing happens – nothing but the airships steadily approaching, the spotlight coming closer and closer and –

The forest seems to explode with thousands of birds rising into the air all at once, and their target is the airships. Ignis doesn’t look to see if they just harry the ships, blocking their view and confusing them, or if they decide to go after the engines; he honestly doesn’t want to know. 

One raven flies down to where they are and caws at them before flapping away further into the forest, slowly enough that it’s clear that they’re supposed to follow.

Ignis takes Noctis’ hand and they head out into the storm.

It’s somehow even worse now that they’ve had some time to dry out a little, or rather to feel exactly how wet they are: wet paws, wet hindquarters, wet, wet, _wet_. Ignis’ hooves keep sticking in the mud, making him stumble, and Noctis keeps tripping over upraised tree roots, and they’re both so very tired already.

“Not much further,” Ignis says encouragingly to Noctis when he pauses for a moment to lean against a tree, tears of frustration in his eyes. 

“How would you know?” Noctis says back, snuffling a little and spitting out some rainwater. “You don’t know where we’re going.”

“The last runestone can’t be far from the cave, or Ramuh would’ve sent us a different way,” Ignis says firmly. He has no reason to believe that, nor any evidence to back it up, but simply saying so seems to be helping Noctis. “We can do this. Come on.”

They keep going.

The rain keeps falling.

The water level on the ground starts rising in a very upsetting sort of way, but luckily they’re heading up a hill, so they leave the increasing flood zone behind them.

Ignis hears a buzzing sound, or at least he thinks he hears one, and he glances back. 

He doesn’t see anything – it’s too dark, too stormy – but he thinks there might be MTs coming after them, maybe. That, or something else that moves with a hiss in the dark of the storm. Either way, Ignis would prefer not to let whatever it is catch up with them.

And they follow the raven all the way to the edge of a cliff. 

They look at the raven. The raven looks back at them, caws, and then hops off the cliff, spreading its wings and flying away into the storm. 

“That was helpful,” Ignis grumbles, peering down the cliff. It’s technically not a cliff, if he’s going to be honest with himself: there’s only a short steep drop, and then it’s more of a very steep hill. And, at the very bottom of the hill, there’s what appears to be the third and hopefully _final_ runestone. “Noctis…?”

But when he turns to look at Noctis, Noctis has that determined expression on his face. “I’m not using a summons to get down the hill, Iggy,” he declares firmly. “Dire need only, you said; this isn’t dire. Ramuh wants to know if I’m going to be like all those humans that kept wanting more and more and more because they were selfish, but I’m _not_.”

“If you’re sure,” Ignis says, a little doubtfully; not that he doubts Noctis’ ethics, mind you, it’s only that Ignis’ definition of ‘dire’ _does_ in fact include being stuck up a hill while being chased by enemy robots intent on killing you and he’s not entirely sure why Noctis’ doesn’t. “Then what do you propose we do?”

Noctis suddenly grins. “C’mon, Iggy. You already taught me _this_ lesson.”

“I did?”

“Yep.” Noctis points down the hill. “Look before you leap, right? Well, I’ve looked, so now it’s time for the leaping. On one –”

Ignis groans. This is a terrible plan.

He reaches down with one hoof to tap the rock beneath him, an ancient ibex instinct that helps him prepare to jump, wondering idly when exactly an Astral would think the lesson of ‘you wouldn’t jump off a cliff if your friend did it’ was worth teaching, because clearly it hadn’t happened yet. 

“– and two – ”

Though Noctis isn’t just his friend, he’s his Prince. More to the point, Ignis does actually think they can make it down the hill like this, or he would’ve just sat on Noctis until one of them thought of a better plan. His mother didn't raise him to be a blind follower to anybody, no matter who they were. 

“– and _three_!”

They leap.

They land at the top of the steep hill. 

They start running down at top speed, quickly tripping over their own hooves or paws and falling on their sides, straightening their backs as much as possible, and rolling the rest of the way down.

By the time they get to the bottom, uninjured and laughing hysterically, they look more like mud-monsters than children. 

“That was _fantastic_ ,” Noctis giggles, getting up on all four paws and reaching for the runestone. “Let’s –”

“ _Never do that again_ ,” Ignis says firmly, even though he's also giggling. The adrenaline rush had been amazing; he can't remember the last time he rolled down a hill like that. “At least not without appropriate adult supervision.”

“Oh, _fine_.”

When Noctis finishes absorbing the last runestone, there’s a rumble and the storm above their heads starts to break apart at last – and with remarkable quickness, too, the clouds drifting apart to reveal blue skies behind and the sudden reappearance of a bright sunny day shining down on the other side of the big marsh, where Noctis and Ignis can now clearly see that all of the advance MT units are down, the last few ships are retreating into the distance, and all of the adults are hunting around, clearly looking for them.

“We should call them,” Noctis says.

“Excellent idea, Noctis,” Ignis says dryly. “But for some bizarre reason, it looks like my phone’s gotten fried.”


	18. 18

“You’ve really gotten quite good at this tomb raiding business, Cor,” Clarus says, reclining on one of the couches in Regis’ sitting room and snacking on some grapes. 

Cor, on one of the other couches, just grunts. He’s been in a sour mood recently. 

“No, really,” Clarus persists. “There’s only, what, three left?”

“Four, I think,” Regis says. He’s been pacing the room again, but that’s fair enough, in Clarus’ mind – the Archaead is coming up quickly, and after the near-disaster of the Fulgariad, it’s no wonder that he’s stressed. He nearly murdered Clarus and Cor both when they came back after that, even though Cor encouraging the kids to head out of the main group was probably the only reason the kids managed to escape the vast majority of the battle. Still, that was nothing next to _Scientia’s_ reaction… “The Mace of the Fierce, which we believe to be in the Rock of Ravatogh; the Blade of the Mystic, which we think is in the Disc of Cauthess; the Katana of the Warrior, which we think isn’t even in Lucis at all –”

“Cyrella said something about the records hinting about it being in Succarpe,” Clarus volunteers, happy to be distracted by questions of tomb-raiding. 

“And lastly, there’s the Scepter of the Pious, which we believe is somewhere in the Malmalam Thicket,” Regis concludes.

“Three left, actually,” Cor says. “An expedition was dispatched to obtain the Scepter.”

“Wait, really?” Clarus says, sitting up a bit. “Did they _succeed_? Why weren’t we informed?”

“They did succeed,” Cor says. “It’s just not _here_ yet. They’ve had it smuggled into their bedding for the last month as they make their way back.”

“You sent Nyx, Hemera and Libertus again,” Regis concludes, scowling. “Which, if I recall correctly, you were expressly forbidden from doing, and that’s why they’re hiding it in their bedding and continuing along their _proper assignment_ instead of coming straight back here.”

Cor says nothing, his face neutral.

“ _Marshal Leonis_.”

“Technically, I didn’t assign them anything, your Majesty,” Cor protests mildly, his expression stubborn and unchanging. “I noticed that they were heading to an area near the Malmalam Thicket on their regular assignment and happened to mention that there was a Tomb in the area that they ought to keep an eye out for, and to let me know if they managed to locate its exact coordinates so that I might visit it with greater ease next time. _They_ messaged _me_ with the information that they had gone in on their own initiative and obtained the Scepter.”

“And having met Nyx and Hemera Ulric more than once in your life, you knew that would happen,” Regis says, shaking his head. “ _Honestly_ , Cor…” 

“Given the way we’re minimizing the number of people who know about the trips to obtain the Royal Arms, it’s not like I have many other people to ask,” Cor says sharply.

“You know that Drautos will formally complain if he finds out that you’ve been undermining him,” Clarus points out, trying to keep the peace by being logical. “ _Again_. You do remember that he’s aware of the Prophecy now too, right? You could just _ask_ him to borrow his soldiers.”

Cor shrugs. “He tends to say no.”

Regis and Clarus both sigh in unison. 

“Jinx,” Cor says promptly.

They both look stricken for a moment, then they both glare at him. “There are no children in the room,” Clarus growls. “That doesn’t count.”

“Made you flinch, though,” Cor says, the faintest smile drifting about his lips, but it fades quickly enough. “I will make my apologies to Captain Drautos, if necessary.”

“You could just avoid undercutting him,” Regis says.

“My best attempts to work with him have generally not resulted in success,” Cor says, crossing his arms. “Either there have been urgent reassignments, or the expedition has gotten lost, or they’ve gotten attacked by Niflheim –”

“You can’t hold bad luck against the man,” Regis says. “He’s been making some excellent progress on the Leide front, regaining some of the lands back –”

“And then losing them again,” Cor says icily. “Leaving them twice as destroyed as they might have otherwise have been, and just in time for the harvest.”

“Your approach is just different,” Clarus says, holding up his hands when Cor glares at him. “He’s more aggressive – and yes, I know, shocking to even suggest it – but you just need to work _with_ him –”

“I _am_ working with him,” Cor says with gritted teeth. “We have multiple joint operations ongoing. However, his Kingsglaive have a tendency to be more – creatively independent, let’s say. This is a tendency which he encourages, and which is understandable in small team maneuvers of the sort that the Kingsglaive favors, but which is less effective when working with a larger institution like the Crownsguard.”

“But the Prophecy quests –”

“Are best conducted by small groups, I know, but he has _consistently_ frustrated my efforts in that regard. For someone who is extremely aggressive in battle, he’s extremely _cautious_ when it comes to dungeon-raiding -”

“Enough!” Regis snaps at a level that is not quite loud enough to be a roar, but is thinking about it. “I refuse to have this gossiping behind his back as if we were children. You will apologize to Captain Drautos, Cor, and –”

There’s a knock on the door.

Regis glares at it, but sighs. “Come in.”

The door opens and Scientia walks in. 

Everyone straightens a little. Scientia was _not_ pleased with Ignis returning covered in mud and traumatized from his forest adventure, but the internal investigation she is conducting abruptly went into high gear right around the same time and she hasn’t really had a chance to go off on all of them in the true depths that they know she's capable of – everyone has been assuming that their fate was postponed rather than averted.

And if she’s here, well, maybe the postponement wasn’t lasting much longer. 

“Counsel Scientia, welcome,” Regis says, clearly opting for formality in the hopes that she’ll remember that he’s her monarch and that she shouldn’t rip his head off. 

Clarus gives him a look indicating that he’s fooling no one, the coward. 

“Your Majesty,” Scientia says, equally formal, inclining her head. “Minister, Marshal.”

“What’s wrong?” Cor asks abruptly.

“Wrong?” Clarus echoes. Cor knows Scientia best out of all of them, of course, but now that Clarus looks more closely, Scientia does seem unusually disordered – circles under her eyes, clothing even more severe than usual, lips pressed together. “Scientia?”

“The internal investigation has reached a number of conclusions that I thought it was best to convey to you at once, in person,” Scientia says neutrally. “Your Majesty, I would appreciate your putting up a shield for additional privacy.”

Regis waves a hand, and the four of them are encased in shimmering glass on all sides – above their heads, beneath their paws, and on each sides. “What have you discovered, Scientia?”

Scientia is silent for a long moment, most unlike her usual forthrightness. “I didn’t want to approach you until I’d reached a firm conclusion that I believed was supported by proof and could hold up in court,” she says. “That’s what’s been taking so long. But – I believe we’re there now.”

Clarus sits up even straighter. A magical shield for privacy – a _disclaimer_ that her conclusions were even more unquestionable than usual – Scientia must have found something hotter than hot in her little investigation. “What have you found?” 

“Yes, Scientia,” Regis says. “What have you found?”

She looks them all in the eye. “I’ve found the traitor in the Kingsglaive.”

* * *

Hemera pokes at Nyx.

Nyx tries to ignore her.

She pokes at him again, patient as only an irritating younger-by-three-minutes sister can be. She’ll get his attention in the end. 

He’s being resistant.

She pokes him right in the ribs where she knows he’s ticklish.

Still nothing.

Oh _yeah_?

She goes for the tender part of his hindleg, right behind the knee.

He leaps a foot in the air, waving his hands frantically. Hemera laughs.

He turns and glares at her. “What is it, _selena_?” he signs at her. “I’m busy.”

“With _paperwork_ ,” Hemera points out, rolling her eyes. “It’s not due until tomorrow.”

“And if it’s not done by then, then I won’t be able to volunteer for the trip to the Disc of Cauthess,” Nyx replies. “For the you-know-what. And I want to go.”

“If you didn’t have five times as much paperwork as everyone else, it’d be easier.”

“I _know_ ,” Nyx grumbles. “I swear, Captain Drautos piles it up on me on purpose, especially before missions.”

“You don’t think he’s found out about – you know?”

“The Scepter?” Nyx signs back, using the made-up symbol they’ve been using between themselves and Libertus for it in case anyone who understood LSL – not that many people around the Kingsglaive – was listening. “Nah, I don’t think so. He just hates doing joint missions with the Crownsguard.”

Hemera shrugs. The rivalry between Marshal Leonis and Captain Drautos is supposedly very hush-hush and secret, which of course means that everyone knows about it. Though perhaps ‘rivalry’ isn’t the right word – Marshal Leonis is the commanding officer, everyone agrees on that, but Captain Drautos is much favored by a number of the conservative Councilors and he, and thus the Kingsglaive, get a lot of autonomy as a result. And that means, politically, Marshal Leonis has to tread lightly around him, which he does…sometimes.

Nyx’s head suddenly swivels away from Hemera. 

“What is it?” she signs.

“Something’s happening in the main room. Let’s go.”

They go. 

Everyone is crowded around the television. 

Hemera makes her way forward, using her elbows and glares to get to the front where she can see the closed captioning. 

_Captain Drautos of the Kingsglaive Confined to Quarters Under Investigation._

Hemera’s eyebrows shoot up.

Holy _crap_.

She turns to look at the others. 

“– something political going on here,” Luche is saying, his face fierce, his hooves scratching the floor and his small donkey tail swishing like he wishes he could mimic the felidaetaurs in puffing up. Ugh, Luche is such an _ass_ – no pun intended. Okay, maybe a bit of a pun intended, but the guy’s lower half is literally a wild donkey, and anyway he deserves it. “Someone’s got it in for the Captain –”

“Right before a joint mission with the Crownsguard, too,” Axis adds, ugly look on his face. He sits back on his and crosses his arms. “You know, Marshal Leonis is Insomnia-born –”

“Yeah, and he’s _Cor Leonis_ , the _Immortal_ ,” Libertus shoots back. “You might’ve heard of a Leonis Adoption right? Or any of those lawsuits he’s filed for refugee rights? You think he of all people would fuck around with Insomnia’s defense just because he doesn’t like immigrants? Or even just the Captain specifically?”

Axis hesitates – Marshal Leonis’ reputation is rather formidable – and Nyx takes the opportunity to say, “Besides, it’s not like the Captain’s being sentenced or thrown in jail or anything! It’s an investigation. That means they think they found something that’s gone wrong. He’ll have an opportunity to defend himself in court just like any other citizen of Lucis, and if they’re wrong, then they’re wrong.”

Hemera stamps her paw. “That’s how the process of justice works,” she signs, Nyx repeating it out loud for the benefit of those who don’t know LSL. “You remember, from the Charter of Lucis, all those rights and responsibilities you swore to uphold? You get the rights, you get the responsibility, and if the Captain’s done something wrong, then he’ll pay for it, same as anyone else.”

“What do they have on him, anyway?” Tredd demands, beating his rabbit’s foot against the floor in that extremely annoying way he tends to do when he is upset about something. “We ought to know.”

“If we don't know, then that means the indictment’s sealed. And if it's sealed, then it’s probably for a good reason,” Libertus says firmly. “It’s probably something sensitive, s’all. Like Nyx said, if they’re wrong, they’re wrong – it might just be a misunderstanding.”

“Yeah, I bet,” Axis sneers. “I’m telling you, it’s a hatchet job –”

Hemera reaches out and slaps him. Not terribly hard, but with a flat palm, aimed to make a loud noise.

He stares at her.

“You are a Kingsglaive,” she signs, Nyx echoing her words. “You are sworn to protect Lucis and uphold the law of Lucis. You will not question an ongoing investigation without grounds to dispute it. The legal process must be respected.”

“Respected, hah! _We’re_ not being respected,” Axis grumbles, but the other Kingsglaive around him are nodding. 

“Ulric’s right,” Luche says, though he looks like he’s bitten into a lemon to say it. “We have to respect the system – even though it’s flawed –”

“Oh, come off it,” Libertus snorts. “Ain’t Captain Drautos the one who’s always going on about law and order being necessary to protect the hearth and home?”

“Says the _Galahdian_ ,” Tredd snaps. “Your home hasn’t been _conquered_ the way so many of ours have been –”

“No, we were just _nearly_ massacred,” Nyx shoots back. “Law and order – unless he was lying in all of those speeches, then respecting the rule of law is what the Captain would want us to do, and you know it. All of you! We’re _Kingsglaive_. Our loyalty is to _Lucis_ – not to the Captain. Isn’t that right?”

“Yeah,” Luche says, holding his hands up for peace. “Yeah, it is.” He looks around the room with a fierce glare. “We’re going to keep doing what we’ve been doing, you got that, all of you? We’re going to carry on. Axis, Tredd, come with me; we’ll review the current assignment schedule and see what needs to be done.”

Hemera glares at Luche’s back as he strides out of the room, closely followed by the other two, and the other Kingsglaive disperse into little groups, all whispering frantically.

Nyx and Libertus join her. “I don’t like this,” she signs to them.

“I don’t either,” Libertus says. “What do you think would make them do something like this – and right before the royal family heads out to the Disc?”

“I don’t like that,” Hemera signs. “But what I meant is, I don’t like Luche being in charge.”

“He’s the Captain’s second-in-command, Hemera,” Nyx points out. “It’s only reasonable –”

“They shared everything,” Hemera signs. “If there’s something wrong with the Captain, there’s something wrong with Luche.”

“We don’t know that there _is_ something wrong, Hemera,” Libertus objects. “It really could just be a misunderstanding – maybe even a frame-up, one of Niflheim’s plots –”

“No,” Hemera signs, shoving the sign in Libertus’ face. “Maybe everyone else doesn’t know, but we know.”

“What do you mean?” Nyx says sharply. 

“You didn’t notice it,” she signs, “but on the screen, in small print, it said the name of the prosecuting officer of the court and, more importantly, the person who’s been heading up the investigation. The special counsel.”

“So?” Libertus asks, confused. “What does it matter who’s in charge of the investigation?” 

“Because,” Hemera signs, jaw clenched, her belly tight with worry, “have you ever known Apollonia Scientia to be _wrong_?”

She can see by their suddenly pale faces that they've reached the same conclusion she has.

If Counsel Scientia is putting her reputation on the line, going back into prosecution years after she resigned in order to focus on civil matters, then that means she is absolutely and utterly convinced that something has gone very, very wrong. She wouldn’t have agreed to go public unless she was certain. 

And if something really has gone wrong with the Captain – 

Then that means something is rotten at the very heart of the Kingsglaive.

* * *

In Luna’s opinion, this is the gloomiest holiday trip she’s ever been on, even putting aside the fact that they’re secretly going to try to forge a Covenant with an Astral, and she’s been on holiday trips that involved her mother having to entertain unwanted guests from Niflheim, so she knows gloomy better than most. 

It doesn’t help that both Cor and Cyrella, the only adults with them besides their fairly minimal Crownsguard escort, are in terrible moods. 

Cor’s pissed off in a bone-deep, fundamental way that he usually only gets when he’s facing up to systemic injustice. He looks like he’s plotting a murder, and Cyrella looks like she might’ve _committed_ a murder and is in the stages of covering it up. 

The situation back home is – not good. 

Captain Drautos’ arrest has been bad enough for morale, given that he was very popular with certain conservative ministers who immediately suggested that a misunderstanding (heavily implied to come from the Crownsguard under Cor’s more liberal leadership) had occurred, and many of the refugee and immigrant subgroups in the city immediately started worrying about what this might mean for the Kingsglaive, the most visible form of acceptance of the immigrant population. 

King Regis quickly took steps to eliminate each issue. First, the ministers were brought in for a secret meeting in which they were made privy to certain private information, which satisfied many of them – the information sufficient to concern the ones who had honestly believed it was a mistake, and the privilege of being invited into the King’s confidence sufficient for ones who were mostly throwing around their weight for the sake of their ego. 

Second, he decided to publicly demonstrate his continuing trust in the Kingsglaive by appointing them to take total control of Citadel security for a month due to Cor’s absence on an important (if unspecified and undated) mission, with the Crownsguard being positioned throughout the city instead. 

Cor hadn’t liked that very much.

He liked it even _less_ when, less than three days after Regis made the announcement, Niflheim sent its first communiqué in literally years to request permission to send a delegation of negotiators to discuss the possibility of a ceasefire treaty. 

With negotiations proposed to be held during the upcoming Archead festival, aka, right at the same time that Cor was to travel with the children to the Disc of Cauthess to meet with the Archean. 

Of course, Regis had no choice but to accept – even the remote possibility of an official ceasefire was far too tempting to refuse – but an official meeting between high level negotiators on each side, possibly including a member of the imperial family, maybe even the Emperor himself, meant that both Regis and Aulea would be obliged to be in Insomnia at the time, as well as Clarus, as Regis’ Shield and most trusted advisor.

Cyrella, as Clarus’ wife, would normally be expected to be there as well, but someone needed to go with the children, and so she was selected to go, over her protests that she felt like she was being sent away to be kept safe like a good little wife. Clarus’ argument that their trips to form the Covenants were far from what would be considered ‘safe’ was not really successful in appeasing her very much.

Luna rather thought Cyrella had a point, since if Niflheim were busy with the negotiations, they wouldn’t have time to interfere with the Covenant. 

Still, no wonder they’re upset. 

_Luna’s_ upset. 

The timing of the offer for negotiations – right after they arrested Drautos on what is eventually announced to be suspicion of treason, the details of which none of the adults agreed to share with her even though she’s _fourteen_ already, and very mature, too – is very suspicious to her mind. If Drautos is a traitor, then that means that Niflheim knows what they’re trying to accomplish and still decided that they were going to _oppose_ their efforts to literally _save the world_.

Which means, in Luna’s opinion, that the Empire is under the thumb of the Accursed. She isn’t sure exactly how, but she’s sure of it.

Aulea promised to keep her in the loop via a group chat on their phones, but it’s really not the same.

If only Scientia could be with them, Luna would feel better. Her foster mother is no fighter, but she’s the smartest person Luna’s ever met, with Iggy being a close second, and having her around would make Luna feel more secure. But she’s leading the investigation into Drautos, now publicly, and leaving the city might look suspicious. 

Before they left, Scientia took Luna aside, put her hands on her cheeks and said to her, “My dear, if you get hurt on this trip – or worse, die – I will be extremely cross with you. Don’t do it.”

The memory makes Luna smile.

Her phone buzzes.

_The delegations have arrived_ , Aulea says. _Next step, boring speeches_.

Luna shakes her head. That, at least, she doesn’t regret missing.

“Are we almost there?” Prompto asks from the front seat, where he has his head stuck out the window. 

“Very close,” Cor says, reaching out and running a hand down his back, making Prompto wiggle happily. 

“I don’t like how deserted it is,” Cyrella says, frowning out the window. She’s in the backseat playing a video game with Noctis, Ignis and Gladio, though it’s not her turn. “It’s the _Archead_ , and this is the Disc – shouldn’t there be more people?”

“The Archead isn’t usually celebrated with the Archean,” Cor points out, though he doesn’t actually disagree. “It’s the holiday of rest from labor and political protests; his personage isn’t actually _involved_ in the festivities the same way the other Astrals are.”

“Still, it seems unusually deserted to me,” Cyrella says stubbornly. “Aren’t picnics traditional around this time?”

“I’ve seen plenty of people out picnicking in the fields near the roads,” Luna offers.

“Fewer and fewer as we get closer to the Disc, though,” Ignis says. “I think Ms. Amicitia has a point.”

Cor hums a little. 

“Care to share your thoughts, Marshal?” Cyrella says archly. 

“I think that Niflheim has stationed guards around the entrance to the Disc,” Cor says. 

That gets everyone’s attention.

“You _do_?” Noctis asks, looking worried. “What makes you think that?”

“It’s a reasonable deduction,” Cor says. “Also, if you look down the road ahead, you can just see the bulk of their airships over the gateway.”

“Oh no!” Luna says, leaning forward and squinting – Cor’s right, she can just barely make them out. There’s a perimeter set up in front of the entranceway to the Disc, but she assumed those were Duscae troops, not the empire. “How will we get past? _Can_ we get past, or will we have to turn back?”

“I don’t want to turn back,” Gladio complains. “We’ve come all this way –”

“We may not have a choice,” Cyrella says, scowling. She can see them too. “Cor?”

“Don’t worry,” he says, sounding unconcerned. “I bought a ticket.”

“A _ticket_?! Cor!”

“There are tours,” he assures them.

Luna is half-convinced that the Immortal has somehow lost it at last, but when they arrive, sure enough, there’s a handful of cars in line to get in, including the other two cars filled with plains-clothed Crownsguard, and the extremely bored-looking Niflheim guards barely give them a second glance as they stamp the ticket and let them through the gate. 

“Well, that was surprisingly easy,” Noctis says, blinking a bit.

“No kidding,” Prompto says. “ _Too_ easy.”

“It _was_ too easy,” Cor says dryly. “The problem will be getting _out_ again.”

“Oooooooh,” all the children chorus. 

“The Crownsguard have orders to do their best to secure us an exit,” Cor says, parking the car. “Otherwise, we may need to get creative.”

Luna’s phone buzzes again, as does Cyrella’s – must be Aulea’s group chat.

_Ugh_ , it says. _This is frankly absurd_.

Luna frowns at it.

Cyrella’s already typing _what is going on_ into her phone. She’s not a great phone typer, painfully pecking in the letters one by one.

_The chancellor of Niflheim seems determined to make an ass out of himself_.

Luna snorts.

“What’s it say?” Noctis asks, trying to look.

“No!” Luna says quickly, covering the screen. “You’re _eight_.”

“I’m nearly nine! It’s only another month!”

“Still no!”

“I’m eleven,” Gladio says. “Can I see?”

“No, and that’s final,” Luna says firmly.

Gladio shrugs. “Mom, can I see?”

“Ask me again when Luna’s not around, dear.”

Luna rolls her eyes and peeks back at her phone, which has continued buzzing with Aulea’s messages.

_No, really._  
He walks in here with, as far as I can tell, a giant bird shield on his arm – no joke – and he immediately starts in with the sarcasm, which is utterly inappropriate for an envoy.  
Well, he said that Niflheim has always wanted peace so I am assuming sarcasm.  
He could be delusional, though. Who knows?  
Also, he’s a leopard ‘taur and he’s wearing spats. Luna, is there any possibility that this is the man you saw on Noctis’ birthday? 

There’s a photograph.

Red hair, red-purple scarf, grey-white jacket, pinstripes, _spats_ …

_Yes_ , Luna types back, hands shaking a little. _He’s the one._

_I see. Good to know._

A moment of silence.

_Hmmm_.

Well, that’s not promising.

_Hmmm what_ , Cyrella types.

_The delusional theory just earned slightly more credibility: he just proposed that we surrender all of the existing territory of Lucis in exchange for Insomnia._

Cyrella growls, deep in her throat.

“Mom! Tell me what’s happening!” Gladio demands.

“Not now,” Cor says sternly. “We focus on the Archean. Cyrella and Luna will let us _all_ know what’s going on when they have a moment. Now, please watch your footing; we’re heading down to the viewing point now.”

_You told him to go fuck himself right_ , Cyrella types back.

_No, we’re still in listening mode. He also wants there to be a formal marriage to seal the deal._

_Noctis is_ eight _; what can he possibly be thinking_ , Luna types in angrily. Her hands aren’t shaking any more. _Who is he supposed to marry?_

_You, actually_ , Aulea types back. There’s a smiley face involved; she’s clearly moved from annoyance to amusement. _In your role as the Princess of Tenebrae, which itself is a protectorate of the Empire._

_…does he not realize that I’m not actually in Tenebrae right now?_

Nothing for a long moment.

_Yes_ , Aulea types. _I assume he does, as he just informed us that they sent an invasion force to secure Fenestela Manor._

“They _what_?!” Luna exclaims, rearing back a bit. Her mother is there – her brother – 

_Everyone is fine_ , Aulea types. _We insisted on confirming that at once. They’re under occupation, but they’re fine. Sylvia is enraged beyond all imagination; she’s already talking about the consequences of this from a governing perspective. Niflheim seems to have stopped caring._

“That’s not good,” Cyrella murmurs, and texts back, _that’s bad_.

_No kidding._  
Okay, we’re back on the subject of marriage. The Chancellor is implying that we know where you are, which of course we do, and he says that Niflheim want the marriage to take place somewhere where they can “confirm” that we’re not “mistreating” you.  
He’s really quite intolerable.   
Help me, I’m starting to find it charming.   
Wait, holy crap. 

Luna waits, but nothing follows for a moment. She and Cyrella exchange looks. 

_What happened?_ Luna types.

_I believe – since the evidence of my own ears suggests it – that Counsel Scientia just implied that the Chancellor was a pedophile. To his face. On the basis that there would be no other reason for him to be interested in marrying off an eight year old and a fourteen year old._

Luna chokes.

Cyrella groans.

_He’s on the defensive now, saying that it’s a marriage of state, no consummation necessary, etc._  
Oh dear.  
I think that was a pun about erectile dysfunction that Scientia just responded with, but I’m not sure since it was so politely phrased.   
Luna, your foster mom is BRUTAL and I think your other mom – watching via video set up – just swooned. 

Luna grins. Scientia has been having regular calls with Sylvia ever since Luna first came to live with her, nearly four years ago now, but those calls all centered around Luna, and while Luna’s tried to explain something of Scientia’s character to Sylvia, there’s nothing quite like watching Scientia take someone down in person. Or, well, by video.

_The Chancellor is increasingly put out_ , Aulea types. _Our turn for speeches now, so I’m going to stop texting. Nothing important will be decided now, anyway – the most we’ve agreed on is to move on to the fancy party portion of the proceedings now. Good luck with the Archean._

Luna puts away her phone and looks up. While she wasn’t paying attention, they’ve gotten almost all of the way to the viewing point, where there is – 

“Is that a tomb?” she asks. “Right in the middle of the Disc’s viewing point?”

“Tomb of the Mystic,” Cor confirms, sounding amused. “Apparently, also a big fan of tourism.”

The kids laugh.

“Noctis, you go absorb the mace,” Cor instructs. “I didn’t want to get this one earlier, since its absence would have been noticed quicker than the rest, but there’s clearly no point in further concealment if Niflheim knows about our goal, so we should go ahead and grab it.”

Noctis nods, his face turning determined. 

“I’ll watch your back, Noct,” Gladio says, reaching out and putting a hand on Noctis’ shoulder. Noctis smiles at him and the two of them approach the Tomb of the Mystic.

“Luna, why don’t you come with me to try to awaken the Archean – if you think you can do it from here?” Cyrella suggests. 

Luna nods. “I can try,” she says. “Iggy…?”

“I’ll come with you,” he says immediately, trotting to her side. “I know how much summoning takes out of you.”

Luna smiles at him and the three of them go to the other side of the viewing point, the higher part where there’s a better view of the massive form of Titan, asleep beneath the Great Meteor.

Prompto stays behind with Cor, who’s keeping an eye out all around to make sure no one sneaks up behind them and also keeping an eye on Noctis and Gladio, who are pulling the Blade of the Mystic off of the Tomb for Noctis to absorb.

Luna turns her attention to Titan, lifting her hands and summoning her Oracle’s magic. “Titan –” she starts, and then stops, suddenly staggering.

“Luna!” Iggy exclaims.

“Luna, what’s wrong?” Cyrella says.

Luna clutches at her head. “He’s not asleep,” she whimpers. “He’s already awake – and he’s _angry_!”

There’s a terrible cracking sound, and they all spin around just in time to see the ground of the viewing point, where thousands of tourists have been before, split into a thousand pieces and tumble forward in a dreadful collapse –

_Including_ the portion with Noctis and Gladio.

“No!” Cyrella screams. “ _Gladiolus_!”

* * *

Raised by a noble family in Insomnia, Aulea is a master of the boring dinner party.

This particular party, although more lavish than any before it, is no different than entertaining a set of nobles with a grudge against her family, armed with poisonous smiles and seeking gossip designed to bring her down; she put up with hundreds of them before she married Regis, and she's put up with hundreds more since.

She’s used to all sorts of wickedness: when she was nothing more than one of Regis’ neighbors, merely one girl out of several dozen that he might one day be inclined to marry and no one yet knew about the games they would play by letter when there was no other way for it, there were nasty rumors, and innuendos, and even blackmail and bribes and more. 

A dinner party with the infinitely more powerful and threatening Empire?

Compared to vying for marriage, this is _nothing_. 

Aulea smiles dazzlingly at several of the ambassadors and spins off towards the refreshments table, where she pours herself a glass of sparkling punch. 

“A lovely lady such as yourself should not be left alone,” an oil-slick voice purrs from beside her.

“Chancellor,” she says, turning unhurriedly with a smile that is truly genuine – a fact that seems to take him aback. She’d say he was a snake, but ever since little Ignis obtained his pet constrictor Triste, she hasn’t really been able to use that comparison in a negative fashion: Chancellor Ardyn Izunia has far too many teeth to be a snake, and none of their more kindly dispositions. No: a shark, or some sort of vicious creature with far too many mouths. “You are too kind.”

He smiles, slimy and overly familiar, his composure restored. “Not at all. I have always been curious as to the quality of the Queen of such a brave nation: it is the mothers that form the character, they say.” 

Aulea arches her eyebrows. “An interesting choice of words,” she says. “And a very old one, too – parenting is far more equitable in our kingdom these days. Is it different in the Empire?”

Ardyn pulls off that hat of his in a courtly bow – _also_ very old-fashioned, she notes to herself; how curious! “I wouldn’t know,” he says. “Not being mated myself. I remain – without issue.”

“And you so charming,” she says ironically, letting him see the glimmers of humor beneath her sarcasm. Without issue indeed! She’d wager he has _plenty_ of issues. “I can scarcely believe it.”

He straightens, looking again surprised for the briefest of moments. “You know,” he says slowly, “I rather think I like you?”

She grins at him, a real one, unable to resist the wicked urge. “Weren’t expecting that, were you?”

He laughs. "No, I wasn't," he admits freely. "I thought of you – not at all, I must admit. But now that I have met you, I'm amazed your husband lets you go alone without him."

"He hardly _lets_ me do anything," Aulea says tartly. "And at any rate, he's talking to your Emperor – a worthy task, wouldn't you say?"

"Indeed, indeed," Izunia chuckles. "Oh, lady – your son must be a marvel indeed." His eyes glitter. "A pity he can't come down to meet us. Tell me, I hope he is not too ill?"

Aulea studies him – looks at those too-bright eyes, clearly hiding something; thinks of the way that he murmured in the ear of his emperor during the speeches and negotiations of earlier that day, and the weight that those murmurs had on the shape of the negotiations – and decides not to bother with the pretense they put about earlier. She has the feeling that Chancellor Izunia is too clever to be taken in – and at any rate, she suspects he knows exactly where Noctis is right now.

What she doesn't know, therefore, is why, if he knows that, he's choosing to be here, instead. 

Something she’ll have to find out.

"Ask me no questions, I'll tell you no lies," she says lightly, putting her punch down on the table and extending a hand towards him. "Very well."

"Very well?" he echoes, widening his eyes a little in artificial question.

"You were about to ask me if I would do you the honor of a dance," she says. "I am going to preempt you and say yes. Shall we?"

He laughs and puts her hand on his arm, leading her out to the dance floor. He's quite elegant, although his cadence is not quite right for what she's accustomed to seeing from a leopard 'taur –

She's not sure what makes her think of it. Perhaps it's his old-fashioned ways, making her think of old-fashioned things long gone out of style. It'd be rude to ask, of course, but then he seems to have enjoyed her light gestures towards rudeness up until now. 

No harm in trying. 

"My dear Chancellor," she says as they step forward in time together, forepaws held straight as they dip and turn and spin around each other, "you really are quite striking – is that some lion I detect in your ancestry?"

It's a shot in the dark, but then – she's always had excellent aim.

His eyes glitter with an ancient fury, and for the briefest moment she fancies that his eyes are black where they should be white, and his irises sickly gold instead of hazel; but he regains mastery of himself quickly. "Indeed you do, my dear," he purrs. "Rude of you to ask, you know, but you detect quite correctly – quite a bit, in fact –"

She lets him change the subject, going back to the evidently safer cut and thrust of politics, and while she smiles and parries, her mind goes instead to the rest of the evening, and how early she can retire for bed, and whether she'll be able to find and convince Scientia to retire early as well. Cyrella would be better for this, being the mistress of the library, but Scientia will do just as well for the research project that she has in mind.

Surely, _somewhere_ in the archives of all the research they've done while digging into the old Kings and Queens of Lucis, looking for the locations of the Royal Arms, they'll have what she seeks –

Long ago, before the rediscovery of genetic testing, before the discovery of 'taur genetic drift, back when mixed-species marriage was discouraged and children of differing phenotypes seen to automatically signify infidelity rather than merely a quirk of fate –

Back when being born different was grounds for suspicion, maybe even disinheritance –

She rather thinks she’ll find a leopard.

A leopard, born to that great and mighty line of lions – the Lucis Caelums.

_If Luna's suspicions are right and you are indeed the Accursed that we seek, Chancellor_ , Aulea thinks, smile still firmly on her lips, _I think you will find that you have a ways yet to go if you think I will let you anywhere near my son!_


	19. 19

“I’m fine, Mom!” Gladio shouts up from the bottom of the pit, trying valiantly to get the dust off his fur but mostly managing to spread it. 

His mother’s worried face appears over the edge of the cliff and he waves, gesturing to show that he and Noctis are okay. Sure, it was a bit closer than he would’ve liked – Noctis was about to go head over hindquarters into the fiery lava pit behind them, but luckily Gladio was skidding down the steep hill next to him, getting some nasty friction marks on his (now aching) hindquarters but controlling his descent, and he got down to the bottom in time to grab Noctis by the tail and hoist him back up to the ledge before he fell in. 

“There’s a path down here,” Noctis says, pointing. He's clearly recovered from the whole falling-down-a-cliff thing, though Gladio admits that it's true that Noctis has had more experience with it recently. Maybe you get used to it? “We should go down it.”

“That’s an awful idea,” Gladio says firmly. “We should wait and get rescued.”

“You need to keep going!” Luna shouts down at them, picking the most inopportune moment for that suggestion. “Titan is waiting for you! We’ll go around and try to find another way down!” She pauses and looks behind her. “And Cor’s going to try to get an alternative means of transportation, too.”

“See?” Noctis says, grinning.

Gladio rolls his eyes at him, but in a fond way. Noctis is a brat prince, but he's _Gladio's_ brat prince. “Yeah, yeah.”

“Be careful!” Gladio’s mom shouts down to them. “Gladio, you lose a limb and I’ll skin you for a rug!”

“My mom has the best threats,” Gladio says happily.

“She really does,” Noctis laughs, already heading towards the path. Gladio rushes to catch up. 

The path is winding and leads through some hot areas, but it’s easy enough to avoid the fire-pits after they figure out what to look for.

And at the end of the path –

“Titan,” Noctis says, sounding impressed. "The Cretan Bull."

Gladio can’t blame him. The Archean stands before them, his bull half buried beneath the earth, his human torso hunched over from the weight of the Meteor. One of his eyes has been pierced through by the meteor’s spikes, and there’s a spike digging into his breast as well. His flesh is dark grey, almost rock-like in texture, but for a white stripe that twists around his torso. His eyes appear closed, but there’s a glimmer of red lining the bottom of them –

He’s awake.

“Be careful, Noct,” Gladio mutters. He doesn’t like the look of those spikes. If _he’d_ been trapped holding that giant meteor for centuries and centuries, he’d be pretty pissed off. 

Noctis nods and approaches Titan. “Uh, hi, there!” he shouts.

Gladio closes his eyes briefly. He _knows_ Noctis got all the same etiquette training he did, plus all of Iggy's extra lectures on the subject, and yet…and _yet_ …

“Hello there!” Noctis calls. “Um. I’m not sure if you know who I am –”

Gladio groans.

Titan lifts his mighty head and opens his eyes. He speaks, but his words are garbled and incoherent.

Noctis staggers, grabbing his skull and moaning in agony. 

Gladio rushes forward to support him. “What’s wrong? Noctis!”

“My head,” Noctis pants. “It hurts…! I think he’s trying to talk telepathically or something, but it’s gone wrong…!”

And then Titan rears back and lifts one of his mighty hands and –

“Oh, _crap_ ,” Gladio says, and tackles Noctis out of the way. 

“He just tried to _squash_ us!” Noctis yelps. He sounds more offended than scared, but then again, he's always been kind of an idiot. “Like a _bug_!”

“Yeah, he did,” Gladio says grimly, seeing Titan pull back his hand for another blow. “And it looks like he’s gonna keep trying till we’re squashed flat. Get _up_ , Noctis!”

They get up, and they run.

Gladio has a sword, now – he’s eleven, he’s _finally_ allowed to carry a bladed weapon – but he’s pretty sure it won’t do anything against freaking _Titan_.

Titan’s hand comes crashing down just a short distance behind them, close enough for the force of the blow to send them stumbling a little.

“Titan! Stop it!” Noctis shouts. “Talk to me! Tell me what you want so that you'll forge the Covenant with me!”

This time, Titan rears fully back, one giant cloven fore-hoof going up and then coming down on them.

They dodge again. 

This time, the explosion of dirt and dust from beneath the blow is powerful enough to send them both head-over-hindquarters. Noctis is coughing, hard; his lungs have been weaker since the accident last year. He’s still not all the way better, but he’s here anyway, and he’s _trying_ , trying to save the stupid world, and these stupid Astrals which should be _helping_ are trying to _kill them_ –

“You _stupid overgrown cow_!” Gladio shouts at Titan. “You _buggy_ piece of _crap programming_! Can’t you see that we’re trying to _help_?!”

“Gladio!” Noctis coughs. His hands are on his chest. 

Gladio might only be eleven, but he knows his duty, darn it. He’s an Amicitia. He’s a _Shield_.

Shields are meant to protect – 

– even at the cost of themselves.

He puts himself between Noctis and Titan, drawing his sword. “You’re not getting Noctis!”

“No! Gladio!” Noctis lunges forward, grabbing his arm. “This is _my_ Prophecy! My responsibility! I won’t let you get hurt!”

“This might be your Prophecy, Noctis, but this is my job! Protecting you is _my_ responsibility!”

“But –”

_Enough_ , a voice booms, so loud that they both fall down shaking and clutching their heads. Noctis’ nose starts to bleed.

They both look up at Titan.

_You_ – he says, but then his mental voice descends back into garbled nonsense. – _spoiled_..! – but then it’s just more crackling and incomprehensive sounds not unlike the sound of a collapsing pile of rocks.

“Gladio,” Noctis says, staring at Titan. “I think – I think there _is_ something wrong with him. I mean. With his, uh, programming, or whatever. I think…I think it’s the meteor. I think it’s interfering with him, somehow.”

“I’m not sure I understand,” Gladio asks, frowning. 

“I think that’s why he can’t talk to us clearly. Something’s gone wrong.” Noctis bites his lip. “I mean, I’m not the computer expert –”

“That would be me,” Gladio says dryly. He’s been taking programming classes for a few years now – he rather likes the idea of designing little programs and games online. “What _do_ you mean?”

“I mean – I think – something in him, some part of him that makes him think and act, kind of like his brain – it’s gone _wrong_ somehow, it’s _warping_ him somehow –”

“You mean that his code got corrupted? By like a virus or something?” Gladio says, frowning. “And you think it’s the meteor?”

“Yeah,” Noctis says, then frowns and grabs Gladio’s arm. “Gladio – try to see if your phone works. We need Luna.”

“Luna?” Gladio asks, but he’s pulling out his phone already, keeping an eye on Titan as he does. Titan seems to be struggling with himself, a twisted grimace marring his face. “How will she help..?”

The phone rings only once before it’s answered. 

“Gladiolus, what’s going on?” his mother demands.

Gladio double-checks, but he definitely called Luna. “Uh, hi, Mom,” he says a little awkwardly. It’s kind of hard to come off as badass when talking to your mom. “We’re down by Titan now and he’s, uh, trying to squish us –”

“I can _see that_ ,” she hisses. She doesn't sound any too pleased with it, either; Titan had better start preparing his apologies now. “We’re making our way down now.”

“Luna, too?”

“Yes. Why?”

“Noctis says we need her help.”

“We’re on our way. Love you, and don’t you dare get squished.”

She hangs up.

“They’ll be here soon,” Gladio reports.

“Good,” Noctis says. He’s staring up at Titan. “We need her help to heal him.”

“To heal..?” Gladio frowns. “But Noct, she’s the Oracle. She mainly heals _Starscourge_ –”

He goes quiet and stares up at Titan. 

No. 

It can't be.

From the meteor...?

“You don’t think…?” he asks. 

“Yeah,” Noctis says grimly, watching Titan toss his head from side to side as if he was in pain, or was trying to stop himself from doing something he didn't want to do. “I do think. And,” he adds, watching Titan start to lift his head again, eyes glowing red again, “I think that he’s losing the fight against it. Gladio, duck!”

* * *

On one hand, Nyx wouldn't want to be anywhere but where he is now: personally guarding the King and Queen from danger now that the first day festivities of the treaty conference is over and they have retired for the evening. It's a vulnerable time for them – if any Niflheim assassin were to strike, now would be time – and so an important time to be alert and on guard.

On the other hand, Nyx really wishes they'd retired somewhere secure, like their bedrooms, instead of the Six-damned library to discuss _ancestry_ , of all irrelevant things. Scientia had been helping out for the first few hours, but she sensibly retired for bed after a while; Queen Aulea, however, continued onwards, and after a while King Regis joined her, sitting on one of the other couches and reciting old family stories on command for her, smiling fondly at his wife as he did.

Nyx hopes he finds a mate that he's as in love with as King Regis is with Queen Aulea, one day. Of course, he also hopes that said future mate has a better idea of entertainment than digging through family archives in the middle of the night...

"Ulric, report your status," Luche says through the comms.

"All quiet here," Nyx reports, looking glumly at the giant pile of books yet to go. "No chance of anyone moving anytime soon."

"Good. Stand your ground. For hearth and home."

Luche clicks off before Nyx can even confirm receipt of the message, so instead he's left to think about the familiar slogan he's uttered a thousand time over without thinking about it. For hearth and home – what does that really mean, anyway? He thinks of Galahd each time he says it, of course, because living in Insomnia doesn't make it his home – not as long as Galahd still stands, and he’s pretty sure it wouldn’t even if it didn't. And the few times he didn't think of Galahd, it was because the motto sat so familiar on his tongue, meaningless, a collection of syllables that the Kingsglaive now utters by rote. So really, what is the point of a motto like that? In a city of immigrants, in a military order staffed almost entirely by refugees...

_The Crownsguard has no motto_ , he recalls Cor saying. _It seemed inappropriate_.

"– even if we do find him in here, I'm not sure what you hope to achieve with it, my dear," King Regis is saying to Queen Aulea. 

"Some advantage, perhaps?" she says with a shrug. "Truth be told, I'm more interested in why he's here, not at the Disc trying to stop Noctis from making the Covenant with the Archean, but _that_ mystery I'm not likely to solve with resort to books, so here I am, trying to solve the one that _can_ be."

"Have you considered an alternative?" 

Queen Aulea arches her eyebrows at him. 

"Sleep has also been found to be beneficial in negotiations such as these, you know," he says, smiling when she laughs. "No, really – I've heard tell of such interesting benefits: more energy, clearer thinking, a feeling of well-being –"

"You're welcome to go to bed, old man," she teases. "Or are you implying that I'm too old to be pulling all-nighters?"

"You're as young as you were when I first met you –"

"What was that again? Six or so? I should hope not!"

"When I first married you, then!" he laughs.

Nyx hides a smile. Yeah, he'd like a mate like that, one day. Someone his _selena_ would like, of course; that's a requirement. He doesn't want to end up like one of the characters in the awful soap operas Libertus lies and says he doesn't watch, torn between loyalties to mate and to sister –

There's a massive explosion somewhere in the palace.

Nyx leaps to his paws and puts himself between the King and Queen and the door. 

He touches his comm. "What's going on?" he demands. "Luche! Libertus!" 

_Hemera_ , he dares not say. _Tell me my sister's okay!_

She’s on watch tonight, too - she'd been stationed by the Crystal. 

"Stay where you are, Ulric," Luche snaps over the comms. "We have this handled. Don't let the King and Queen leave their bedrooms. _Don’t_ be a hero!"

Nyx grits his teeth. “Understood,” he says. “For hearth and home.”

“For hearth and home.”

Luche clicks off again, right before Nyx remembers to tell him that they’re in the library, not the bedrooms. 

“Do you think..?” Queen Aulea is asking King Regis, who looks – tired, suddenly. Very tired, and sad.

“Yes,” he says. “I rather think so. There was always a chance. Help me up, beloved?”

She stands and gives him a hand up to stand, and then they both start heading towards the door. 

Nyx turns to look at them. “Uh, your Majesties? I have orders to keep you here –”

“Overruled,” King Regis says. “We’re going to the Crystal. Remain on radio silence from now on.”

Nyx should tell them that orders are orders, and his orders are to keep them safe, and _something_ like that – but Hemera’s at the Crystal, too, so he really doesn’t want to.

And, well, King Regis _is_ the ultimate commander-in-chief.

That means he has the right to override orders. Right? 

“Are you sure?” Nyx asks.

“Quite sure,” King Regis says. “Now – quickly.”

There’s a secret elevator in the Citadel. 

There's a _secret elevator_ in the Citadel.

Ugh, Nyx is so offended. Why did no one tell him about the secret elevator? Life would be _so much easier_ with an elevator. The Citadel has _so many steps_.

He doesn’t say that, though. Seems rude. 

A few minutes later, they hurry out into the Crystal chamber, where Hemera and Pelna are still standing sedately on guard, and they turn to look at them with questions in their eyes, probably wondering what they're doing there –

And that’s when Axis and Tredd warp into appearance right behind them and bring down their daggers.

* * *

It's not like Prompto didn't already know that his Cor was the best, most awesome, badass dad you could possibly have, but there's something to be said for watching your dad walk straight up to an MT squadron, politely ask to borrow one of their ships, and then cut them all down when they attack him.

And all that without getting a speck of oil or miasma on his fur.

"Will I be able to fight like you when I'm grown up?" Prompto asks, trotting up to Cor now that the fighting's done.

"Probably not the same way," Cor says, looking around for additional enemies. Not seeing any, he relaxes and starts walking towards one of the ships. "You'll be better with a gun than a sword – your muscle tone is still low, so focusing on technology is the best way to focus your energies to maximize your talents."

Prompto considers this. "I don't know," he says doubtfully, trotting along to catch up. "Fighting with a sword looks pretty cool. Gladio fights with a sword, and he's only two years older than me."

"Gladio is always going to be taller and stronger than you," Cor replies. "But you can already outshoot him."

" _Really_?"

"You do in every paintball game."

"But that's _paintball_ , it's not real!"

"It's a pretty decent equivalent, actually," Cor says. "Don't let video games mislead you."

"Huh."

"Besides, guns are versatile and flexible when used correctly," Cor continues. "By the time I get done training you, you'll be capable of close-quarter combat, medium range, long-distance..."

Prompto beams. He likes the sound of Cor training him, even if he's smart enough to know that actually _being_ trained will be like the daily exercise regimen that Cor makes him do, only _so much worse_. 

It’s okay. He’ll get to hang out with Cor all day, and that’s worth even – _ugh_ – exercising. 

Cor does something to three of the Niflheim ships, probably sabotaging them, then pops open a hatch on the fourth one and walks on. 

Prompto follows. "What're you doing?" 

"Borrowing a ride," Cor says, settling in front of the control console, his tail flicking behind him like he's on a hunt. "Search the ship for anything useful or problematic, will you?" 

Prompto salutes him and dashes off, his own tail wagging furiously, even as the Niflheim ship starts creaking and lurching up off the ground in flight.

He doesn't find much that would be useful – mostly seats to hold MTs in, and not much else – but he _does_ find an officer's room and returns wearing what he considers to be a very dashing air-pilot hat. 

Sure, it's a bit too big and falls down over his face a bit, but whatever. It's still cool!

He reports his findings to Cor, who nods. "This is a transport drop ship," he says, still focused on the console ahead of him. Prompto's pretty sure he's flying the ship, which is just more evidence of how cool Cor is. "It's to be expected that we wouldn't find much here. Go sit in that window seat over there and see if you can turn on the controls."

Prompto hops up, his tail wagging again. Cor trusts him! 

At first, his best attempts to activate the console fail, the buttons refusing to respond, but then he sees a scanner and gets the bright idea of shoving his wrist-barcode over it, and it works. 

"Hey, I got it to work!" he exclaims, grinning. 

A moment later his smile fades and his tail droops as he looks down on the console. "Uh, Cor?"

"Yes?"

"Does this – does me getting it to work mean that I'm really meant to be a Niff?" 

He doesn’t _think_ so – Cor’s always been very firm about Prompto being a proper Lucian citizen – but sometimes, those old insecurities come bubbling right up…

"No," Cor says, absolutely certain. "Being from Niflheim is a matter of nationality, not a state of being. What it _means_ is that Niflheim engineers are stupid enough not to change their locks nearly a decade after they gave a key to a literal _baby_."

Prompto giggles, because Cor sounds so _offended_ by Niflheim stupidity.

"I'm like a skeleton key!" he exclaims, grinning. 

Cor smiles at him. "Good job, Prompto."

Prompto waits to hear if there will be some qualification – 'you're only as good as your last battle' is one of Cor's favorites – and when there isn't, his tail starts wagging like crazy. He did a good job. He's made Cor _proud_. 

"What's this console for, anyhow?" he asks.

Cor's smile turns into a smirk. "Oh, that? That's the guns."

Cor. Is. The. _Best_.

Prompto sits down and starts trying to learn everything he can about the console. He doesn't want to accidentally shoot their friends, after all.

"I see them," Cor says, and Prompto turns to look.

They're all pretty low down in the cavern, standing right in front of Titan. Luna has her hands on one of Titan's _gigantic_ hands, much larger than she is, and her hands are glowing like she's doing the Starscourge-healing business that she started doing in not-so-secret about a year ago, which is more or less when everyone stopped getting in her way and started pointedly not noticing what she was up doing. 

"What's Luna doing?" Prompto asks.

"Healing, by the looks of it. Prom, I'm going to open a side door; go let them know that it's us."

Prompto nods and trots off, finding the side door. He can see through the window that Gladio's spotted them, and that he's telling the others, and that they're all tensing up because they think the ship is full of Niffs.

And then the door opens and Prompto pokes his head out, waving. "Hey there!" he calls, beaming at them. "Want a ride?"

They all break out into smiles.

Cor doesn't quite land the ship, but he gets it pretty close to the ground, close enough that Cyrella can help Noct and Gladio onto the ship and she and Luna can jump up themselves. 

"You're all dusty," Prompto tells Noct and Gladio, trying to dust Noct off with his hands. "Are you okay?"

"Yeah, we're fine," Noct says, beaming. "I got Titan's blessing! He said that after watching me and Gladio, he knew that we understood the importance of responsibility and valued sacrifice!" 

"And he was really happy to be healed, even if it was only a bit," Gladio adds. "Luna's the best."

"I just wish I could do more," Luna says with a sigh. "I just got so tired – my mother could do more, I'm sure, but Titan said it was enough. And we've come so far with the Covenants – if we can get rid of the Starscourge in its entirety, that would be the best –"

"You did your best," Cyrella says firmly. "And we accomplished this Covenant in record time. We can rest."

"Not yet," Cor says. 

They all turn to look at him, and his face is grim. 

"This ship is flying towards Insomnia," he says. 

"I should hope so," Cyrella says.

Cor releases the controls and stands up. "No," he says, and points to one of the screens, which is reeling off phrases in Niflheim code – code that Prompto knows Cor understands, but which he definitely does not. "The ship is flying there _automatically_. The Wall has fallen."

And then everyone is shouting.


	20. 20

Regis knows that his wife, and sometimes his friends, think that he can be too soft: too quick to forgive, too generous to his enemies. He doesn't take offense. It's probably true. His is not the way of the Fierce, or the Conqueror, or even the pitiless Warrior of his forefathers. 

For Regis, it has always been more important to have hope. 

Hope is all that sustains him, some days – the days when he dwells upon the loss of his kingdom to the encroaching Niflheim threat, when he sees how cruel his beloved city can be to the refugees that wash up upon their shores, when he thinks about what 'taurkind could truly do to fight the daemon scourge that plagues them all if only they worked all together. 

Hope that for all the evil in world, there too is light – that the light within the souls of people would win out over the darkness. 

Not every time, perhaps. But once in a while. 

Enough. 

It is for that reason he gave the Kingsglaive the chance to defend the Citadel alone: hoping, by this measure of trust, to show that he _did_ value them, that their contributions _were_ worthwhile, that there was still some peace yet to be had if only they all worked towards it. 

That not all of the stories that Drautos – if indeed he were in fact Glauca – had fed them were true. 

He knew, of course, that he was taking a risk in making the offer; Clarus and Cor had pointed that out to him at great length. Aulea had spoken briefly against the idea, but had subsided quickly enough; she knows him well enough to know when he has made his final decision, and the reasons behind that decision, and she knows how important it is that his reign be one of mercy as well as justice. 

Yes, if he had known that Niflheim would reach out to parley and negotiate a treaty now, of all times, he would not have made the offer. He does not so easily gamble with the lives of his people, whatever Drautos says, whatever accusations he makes – accusations so pointed and searing that Regis cannot tell if they are complaints truthfully meant or merely barbs designed to hurt. But to take back the offer once made would do worse than destroy what he sought to achieve: it would crush those of the Kingsglaive who were yet loyal, knowing that despite his words their King did not trust them. 

There would be nothing left of the Kingsglaive if he did that.

So he did not revoke the offer. 

Next, he hoped that, at the very least, they would not act against him: their captain gone, their plans gone awry, forced to act within the very heart of Insomnia rather than whatever plan they originally had. He hoped they would see reason, if nothing else, and abandon their treason still-born in its crib.

They did not. 

Lastly, he hoped that what measures he had put in place to defend against the possibility of treason would minimize whatever damage they might inflict, and in that he still had reason to hope. 

And yet –

Somehow, he did not think that they would attack each other. 

Their comrades-in-arms, their brothers and sisters, their _friends_. 

That's why he assigned the most perilous tasks – guarding the Crystal, guarding his own person – to Kingsglaive that he trusted personally, or who were recommended to him by those in whom he had faith. He thought, he hoped, that that would be enough - enough to safeguard his city, to safeguard his person, to cause those who wished them all ill to take a moment of pause before they acted.

It is not.

The Kingsglaive – or at least, some traitorous portion – have turned upon Lucis, and they spare no one at all.

Several of them were engaged in some form of sabotage of the Crystal and, upon seeing Regis and Aulea enter, decide that the time for secrecy is over; they warp – using his power – behind their comrades, daggers coming down.

Regis is too weak to stop them outright, the Ring draining his life more swiftly each year, but he can at least divert their blows: he lifts his own hand in return, summoning the great Armiger of his ancestors, and he sends it against the traitors, knocking them back. 

He was never much of a fighter, no, not like Clarus or Cor; he relies too much on his magic and his shields, and he always has, enough to make him wonder what name they would call him once he was dead – 

– but poor fighter or no, he still has _some_ tricks up his sleeves.

He casts forth his Armiger once more. 

The traitors are battered down by his weapons and hastily retreat, calling for aid.

"Hemera!" Nyx screams, the shock that kept him frozen breaking. He darts forward – one of the two Kingsglaive that was stabbed is his sister.

She clutches at her shoulder, blood streaming down her back to stain her pale wolf hindquarters, making terrible sounds of pain, but she nods at Nyx, making some signal with her fingers – deaf, of course; Regis has nearly forgotten, since all of the Kingsglaive tend to be rather overawed and silent in his presence.

Regis never learned LSL, a fact which he's regretting now. 

Aulea produces a gun. "There are more coming; I can hear them," she says. "Shields up, my dear."

Regis raises shields around them all – just in time, as the Kingsglaive stream out of the Crystal chamber to surround them. 

"Where did you hide that gun?" he asks Aulea. He didn't feel her summon it. "You're still in your court dress."

She smirks. "Darling, the gun was _also_ in my court dress."

He does so love her, his fierce lioness.

There is a terrible cracking sound, like glass breaking, and it fills the room.

"What's that?" Pelna, the other injured Kingsglaive, gasps. Nyx is focusing on bandaging him first – Pelna was injured worse than Hemera, a wound deep in his side rather than the shoulder, and Regis suspects Hemera, who hovers by her brother's side, insisted. 

"That is the Crystal," Regis says, and raises his eyes to the sky. He can see from where he stands that the Wall is beginning to crack in the sky, falling in shards of beautiful magical glass that dissolves even as it falls. Without the Crystal to focus his power, there is nothing he can do to maintain the Wall. "They have knocked it from its plinth."

"But that would –" Nyx begins, then stops, horrified.

"Yes," Regis says heavily. "The Wall has fallen. I expect Niflheim has already summoned its airships and is attempting to launch an attack on Insomnia as we speak. I have already called upon the Crownsguard to defend the city."

He’d sent the message in the elevator. He had to offer trust to the Kingsglaive, yes, but even trust only goes so far. 

"Niflheim won't be able to bring too many MTs," Aulea says. "We would have spotted a full fleet. Our Crownsguard will likely be able to overwhelm them and repel their forces – there are procedures in place for an invasion. The only question is –"

She falls silent. 

Regis turns.

Drautos is there. 

He was supposed to be in the prison cells, guarded by Crownsguard – Regis almost hopes that they were bribed or corrupted, but he suspects they were not, and that they are now dead.

Perhaps that is why these Kingsglaive did not hesitate to raise their hands against their own, hands already stained with the blood of their fellow citizens.

Drautos is there, and stepping forward, his mighty sword at hand, his incredibly powerful hyena haunches flexing as he moves. 

"Your Majesty," he drawls, and his voice is thick with sarcasm.

Nyx's head shoots up. "Captain," he says almost blankly. Then, to the donkey ‘taur at Drautos' right hand, "Luche." And to the coyote ‘taur on his left, almost a moan of pain, “ _Axis_.”

They were his friends, these ‘taurs. 

"You should've just listened to your orders, Nyx, instead of being a hero," Luche says with a heavy, disappointed sigh. "And maybe you would've made it."

"Sure," Nyx says, starting to get angry. "But Hemera, she would be dead, huh? And then you'd come and hunt me down like a trapped rat or something?"

"We would have given you both the chance to join us, instead," Drautos says, waving the one called Luche back. "You are from Galahd, which has not fallen, but you, too, know the agony of invasion – the pain of watching your family, your _home_ , bear the brunt of the Empire and the daemons, while the King of Lucis sits safe and sound inside his precious wall, hoarding peace and tranquility for himself –"

Hemera stirs and makes another gesture with her hand.

This one requires no knowledge of LSL.

"Yeah," Nyx says savagely, agreeing. "Go fuck yourself. _Traitors_."

"We never betrayed what truly mattered," Drautos says. "We have always been loyal to _our_ homes – to _our_ home and hearth –"

Regis feels Aulea's tail wrap around his, a comforting gesture, and – very delicately – squeeze twice.

"– to the _Empire_?" Nyx is shouting. He's acting as a remarkably good distraction, even though Regis believes him to be entirely in earnest. "It was the _Empire_ that took your homes, not Lucis!"

"I cannot fault them for taking what was given," Drautos sneers. "A weak kingdom, a weak king, sacrificing the homes and sons of _outsiders_ so that his precious city alone would prosper – the Empire was drawn in by the weakness of Lucis –"

"What the hell are you even talking about? This war has been going on for _generations_!" Nyx shouts. "No one king can have caused anything!"

"They took away the Wall!" Drautos roars. "It once extended far across the land, but they abandoned our people to the dark and the daemons –"

Regis finishes counting to five and abruptly drops the shields.

Aulea, who was naturally expecting it, fires at once. 

Five shots, all but emptying her gun, and then Regis pulls the shields back up.

He has never been much of a fighter himself, no, but his loved ones have always been fierce enough so that he never noticed the lack.

As hoped, the attack took the traitors by surprise, leaving them no time to respond in kind – Luche ducks with automatic instinct, Aulea's bullet searing through the meat of his shoulder instead of lodging within it; Axis staggers backwards, slower to react and not nearly so lucky, the bullet striking true in his chest; and Drautos –

Drautos, at whom three bullets were aimed, simply _changes_ , silver metal snaking all along his flesh until he is fully covered, into –

“General Glauca,” Regis says, his voice heavy. He had dearly hoped that it wasn’t true. Scientia found evidence of treason, yes, of fomenting rebellion underneath the nose of the Citadel itself, and she thought that the evidence suggested that Drautos was Glauca – the timing of their appearances; analysis of their fighting styles; Glauca’s reluctance to fight Cor, who had beaten Drautos in a one-on-one – but Regis _hoped_ …

“You - you - you _fuckwad_!” Nyx shouts. “You absolute _dickhead_!”

Aulea grins. “Well, that’s one way of putting it, I suppose,” she murmurs. “Perhaps slightly less than perfectly diplomatic – but understandable, given his tender age. And anyway, who needs diplomacy in battle?”

“I fight for my people,” Glauca says to Nyx, his echoing voice twisted enough to be unrecognizable as Drautos’ own. “You protect a weakened king and a dying kingdom – and for what?”

“It’s called ‘not wanting the Empire to take over the world, unleashing daemons left and right’,” Nyx snaps. “Every single crime you hold against Lucis was committed by Niflheim, by the people _you_ are fighting to _help_ , you – you _plant_!” 

Aulea sniggers.

Everyone glances at her. 

“What?” she says. “It’s funny. Plant as in vegetation, or plant as in undercover spy – okay, I’m ruining the joke.”

Hemera signs something Regis can’t understand, then gives a thumbs up. He assumes that means she agrees that the statement was funny.

Glauca shakes his helmeted head – just the way Drautos does when he doesn’t understand how someone could ruin the moment like that, though it's usually Cor who enjoys puncturing solemnity rather than Aulea. 

Cor –

Cor is away now, unable to help; he is with the group seeking to obtain a Covenant with the Archean. Regis can only hope that they succeed.

At least Noctis is away, and safe. 

Regis _trusted_ Drautos with the information about his precious Noctis, about the Prophecy, about how important his mission was for the sake of all the world, and Drautos betrayed him regardless. Forewarned or no, that betrayal still stings sharp. 

“Enough of this,” Glauca says. “You hide behind your shield, king, displaying your weakness once again – enough! Come out and face us.”

Nyx tenses into a fighting stance, pulling out his daggers; even Hemera staggers to her paws, though she’s listing very badly to one side. Pelna cannot rise at all, his hindquarters wet with blood, his tail hanging limp, and his face gone pale. 

Regis looks at Glauca right where his eyes would be.

“No,” he says.

“What do you mean, no?” Luche demands. 

“I refuse to fight you upon your chosen ground,” Regis says calmly. He lifts his hand and additional shields spring up, these ones lining the walls around the chamber of the Crystal. “My wife accurately analyzed the situation: Niflheim is far, and there are only so many ships they could bring close enough to be of service to them now, and in those ships, only so many MTs. We, on the other hand, have the full might of the Crownsguard with us to defend the city, a Crownsguard filled with many more ‘taurs than are in your corrupted Kingsglaive. They _will_ succeed in repelling the Niflheim attack, in time. The only uncertain element that might have tipped the balance was where _you_ were, General – and now that we know that, you are going _nowhere_.”

Regis cannot see Glauca’s expression, but he can see Luche’s – the smug sneer of superiority dropping off his face; the realization, perhaps belatedly, that shields are not only good for keeping attacks _out_ , but also keeping people _in_.

“Wait, what?” Nyx says. “Our plan is just – what? To _wait_?”

“With the Wall itself down, I can keep these shields up for a very long time,” Regis confirms. “There are more Crownsguard and, I hope, loyal Kingsglaive such as yourself, than there are traitors. They will repel the Niflheim forces, and then they will come here and arrest these traitors, bringing them to justice.”

“The Crownsguard has detached a division to detain the Emperor of Niflheim as we speak,” Aulea says, looking at Glauca. “If all you care about is _your_ home, Drautos, then surely you do not object to such a measure. Unless you are indeed loyal to Niflheim first and foremost..?”

“The Empire’s nothing more than our ticket out of this situation,” Luche snaps, though the whites of his eyes are showing. He’s afraid. He’s little more than a boy, and Regis pities him – but he’s made his choice. There’s no turning back now, not with murder on his conscience. “It means crap all to us.”

Glauca is silent for a long moment. Regis wonders what he’s thinking – wonders if Aulea’s jab flew true, wonder whether Glauca is truly loyal only to his homeland, thinking he is doing the right thing by allying with the empire, or whether Glauca is by now no more than Niflheim’s dog.

Sadly, Regis doubts he’ll ever get a satisfactory answer to that question.

“It does not matter,” Glauca finally says. “We will escape your little prison.”

He lifts his sword and brings it down hard on the shields, clearly seeking a weak point. They exist, of course, and as the captain of the Kingsglaive, trained in the use of the King's magic, he would know all about how to find it. 

But they have made one mistake: they took down the Wall first. The greatest part of Regis’ magic, of his life and soul, was poured into that Wall, every day, and with that drain gone, it is his to wield once more.

These shields will not break.

Glauca continues to try, though, and Luche and several of the other Kingsglaive pull out their daggers, drawing their hands back to cast lighting or fire –

Nothing happens.

“What…?” a rabbit 'taur which Regis believes is named Tredd asks, staring at his hand in surprise. “But the King is still alive – we should still have magic!”

“The magic is _my_ magic,” Regis says harshly. “And I, and I alone, choose to whom it is gifted – and it is a gift I can recall.”

“Again you hide,” Glauca sneers, “while others die.”

“It is by taking this action that I protect as many people as I can,” Regis says. “To the best of my ability. Even if it means I cannot fight in person. Say what you will, Glauca; it will not move me.”

Glauca spins and stalks away, going to confer with the other Kingsglaive. 

“I’m not sure I like this plan,” Nyx says, dropping his fighting stance and returning his daggers to their sheaths.

“Not heroic enough for your taste?” Aulea asks, smiling a little. “These things rarely are, particularly when you have to worry about so many people. The perilous joys of being royalty, I'm sad to say; we have to think of the bigger picture. And, sadly, keeping Glauca and the others contained is more important that appeasing our own desire to smack him in his stupid face.”

Nyx barks out a laugh.

“Come,” she continues, “let us see what we can do for young Pelna.”

Hemera limps over to Regis and salutes. 

He smiles at her. "I'm sorry, my dear; I would call for medical assistance for the two of you, but..."

She shakes her head firmly and signs something.

"I'm afraid I don't understand."

She shrugs, clearly accustomed to that. She salutes again. He takes that to mean that she understands why he cannot put the shields down, and that she still supports him.

"Can you shield just them in?" Nyx asks, peering at the shield. "Then we move out?"

"Unfortunately, they would have to stay in one place for that," Regis says, watching the corrupt Kingsglaive mill around, hitting the shields with their weapons in a vain attempt to weaken them. "We also don't know what further forces they are in contact with. Putting shields up and down is more draining than keeping them up, and I don't know how long we will be required to keep them up. Far better to stay in our current position. Unless Pelna requires immediate medical attention...?"

"No, sir," Pelna says before anyone else can say anything. "I'll be okay, sir. Don't you put them down for my sake."

Regis accedes to his request, though he worries – the side is a very delicate area, near the intestines, and too much of a delay might lead to sepsis. But the plan is still valid, injury or no, and at least Pelna’s willful pretense of good health is enough to let Regis deceive himself into hoping that perhaps they will be able to avoid any more casualties.

"They're planning something," his sharp-eyed people-wise Aulea says, watching the traitors talking with each other. "Keep your guard up, all of you – if they find a way to break the shield, we will be vulnerable."

The three Kingsglaive all nod.

And so they wait, stuck at an impasse.

It is, sadly, a state Regis is very familiar with from this long and endless war. 

After what must be nearly an hour, if not more, there's a sound in the hallway. 

Regis and Aulea exchange looks of concern.

"Not Crownsguard?" Nyx asks in a low voice, catching it.

"The Crownsguard had orders to secure the city and to stop the Niflheim invasion first, should the Wall fall," Aulea replies, "and only after they finish that should they turn to restoring the Crystal. I find it unlikely that it is our forces coming up the stairs – more likely our enemy's companions, here to assist with the problem of the shield."

Nyx nods his understanding, murmuring something that sounds not unlike "they deserve the stairs", and goes back to watching the other Kingsglaive.

He's memorizing their faces, Regis thinks; he wants to know who betrayed him.

Regis would tell him that such exercises will only lead to heartache, but he knows well that words cannot help heal the wound of a betrayal such as this. 

Sure enough, the sounds from the stairs resolve themselves into more Kingsglaive – not including Nyx and Hemera's good friend Libertus, Regis notes, and hopes that the honest bear 'taur yet lives – and with them, held in their grip, they have –

"Clarus!" Regis exclaims. 

Clarus is hurt, and badly – his face is bruised, his eyes blackened; his striped orange hide wet with blood and the oily miasma characteristic of MTs. He is not walking, but being dragged.

He hears the others around him, reacting in their own way, but he only has eyes for his Shield.

His oldest friend.

There's no way the MTs managed this alone, for Regis knows that Clarus would have been surrounded by Crownsguard – and yet – if Clarus has fallen - then the city –

Clarus signals roughly with one of his dangling forepaws, not using his hands to avoid notice.

Stop. City. Safe. 

The city is secure. Then how did they get to Clarus?

"You are very good at hiding behind your shields and walls while others die," Glauca says. "Let's see how well you do when it is _your_ friends who are dying."

He lifts his sword and puts it to Clarus' neck.

Regis opens his mouth to say – he doesn't know what, for there is nothing he can say, nothing he can do -

There is a terrible sound, then, from just outside the windows, a sound familiar to anyone who has been beyond the Wall.

The sound of the terrors of the night.

Daemons.

"And those are the daemon carrier ships unleashing their weapons upon your city," Glauca says. He sounds satisfied, the monster; he does not care about the civilian lives that will be destroyed. "Even better. You will watch as your friend dies by my sword, King, even as the daemons come right into your city of tranquility, bringing death in their wake –"

Another sound.

Glauca frowns, clearly not recognizing it.

Regis can't entirely blame him. It sounds like – thunder?

But the sky was _clear_ , last he checked. 

"Holy crap," Pelna, who was lying slouched by the small window, suddenly says, his eyes wide. "Ramuh's fucking wings...!"

"What is it?" Aulea asks. She puts her forepaw on Regis' own, warning him against impulsive acts. She herself would use her hand for the gesture, but she has her now-reloaded gun aimed firmly at the enemy. 

"Ulric," Regis croaks, gesturing with his head to the window, wanting a report. He can't take his eyes off of Clarus' steady gaze.

The one that says 'Let me go'. That says 'my life is not worth dropping your shield'. 

That says – 'my life _is_ your shield'.

But Clarus is his oldest friend, his friend from the crib, from when they were no more than kittens themselves. He was the only one who stayed by his side: when Cid decamped to Hammerhead after an argument, when old Weskham stayed on in Altissia, when Cor the kitten, their late arrival, grew up. He is the only one who understands Regis' mind the way no one else does, not even Aulea.

A King must make sacrifices. Regis knows that maxim far, far too well. It was to save as many people as possible that he retreated into Insomnia after his father's death and their terrible defeat, knowing that it was only that retreat that encouraged Niflheim to slow down its plans of conquest – that painful retreat and the withdrawing of the Wall some years later that brought about their tenuous ceasefire, however temporary, and gave a pause from the horrors of war to the lands of his people so that they could try to rebuild. 

It was for his people that he stayed behind the Wall and did not start a fight he knew he would lose.

And it is for his people that he will stay behind his shields now. 

As a king, Regis must love his people. As a 'taur, there are times he finds that he hates them.

"Ramuh's wings!" Nyx exclaims. 

"What _is_ it?" Aulea snaps.

"No – you don't understand – it really is _Ramuh's wings_. He's manifesting!"

"He's _what_?" Regis says, and many other people in the room exclaim something similar as well. They all move towards the window at once to go look, each on their own side of the magic shield wall; even Glauca goes, pulling his sword away from Clarus to do so – a moment's respite, nothing more, Regis knows.

They go to look and they see –

Noctis.

Noctis, standing in the open doorway of a Niflheim cruiser that hovers right above the center of his city, Gladio at one side, Ignis at the other, Luna and Prompto at his back, his hands thrown up into the air as if he were summoning the storm itself.

And above Noctis' hands, there is Ramuh himself, gathering in the air above them all, his thousands of birds coming together into his gigantic form. 

And below him –

"Titan," Regis breathes, even as the others around him curse. 

Titan himself manifesting his far-flung form, which he has not done in _years_ , in _generations_ , the mighty bull of the land rearing up and bringing his terrible hooves down, down – 

Down upon the daemons unleashed by Niflheim.

Ramuh throws his great staff, thunder and lightning both, and he hits the daemons, too, a fiery blaze that blackens and consumes them even as the massive creatures of dust and darkness turn to flee.

And before the unstoppable might of the Astrals, the daemons fall. No matter their size, no matter their fearsomeness, this is one battle they cannot win.

Seeing this, the airships of Niflheim scatter and turn to flee.

"No!" Glauca roars, lifting his gauntleted hand in a fist of rage.

Noctis and his ship are moving now, turning and heading straight to the Crystal, Regis notes almost absently. Straight towards them.

"Betrayed again, Glauca?" Aulea asks, her voice poisonous. "It is almost as though the mighty Empire doesn't actually care about refugees fighting for their home, just the way you accuse us of doing."

Glauca strikes out at her in his fury, but for all the might of his sword, Regis' shield holds. His traitorous Kingsglaive mill around him like frightened geese, panic in their eyes, realizing, perhaps for the first time, that this is a battle they might lose – and that there is a price to be paid for treason.

"You may have won the day, cowards," he snarls, spitting mad. "But you have lost, too – I will see to it that you lose –"

He turns back to Clarus, whose calm has not been moved, and he lifts his sword up high.

"Regis!" Aulea shouts. "Drop the shields now!"

He doesn't know why she is suggesting this – it is contrary to their agreed-upon plan of remaining behind the shields – but Regis loves his wife and more than that: he trusts her.

He drops the shields.

And then, through the highest pane of the great window far up above them, there is the shattering of glass as someone leaps through it and down to them, landing right before Glauca.

Someone with sword drawn and teeth bared. 

Someone whom Glauca has never faced in open battle – someone whom Drautos has never defeated –

Cor.

The Immortal.

“Hey there, Glauca,” the finest warrior of Lucis says with a smile. “I’m here to kick your ass.”


	21. 21

Luna is shaking, she’s not going to lie. To think that war – invasion – came so close to Insomnia itself! And at the hands of the Kingsglaive, no less! With _daemons_ , the scourge of Eos, as Niflheim's weapons of choice – she's heard of it before, of course, distantly, but she could barely believe it until she was seeing it - it’s vile, absolutely vile, and it shakes her to her core to know that any ‘taurs, any ‘taurs at all, would choose to use such a weapon. 

"Don't be sad, Luna," Prompto says, patting her back comfortingly. "It's over now."

She nods. Over, at least until the trials for the traitorous Kingsglaive, and very likely Drautos' execution. 

"Besides, the summoning thing was _way cool_ ," Prompto adds, which makes her smile.

"Never lose your sunny way of looking at things, Prompto," she tells him. 

He grins at her. 

There's a tap on her shoulder – it's Scientia. "I see that you listened to me about not dying," she tells Luna approvingly. "And my little troublemaker came back in one piece this time, too."

"It was _one time_ ," Ignis grouses. "And I got _pneumonia_ last time, I didn't _break_ something or anything."

"Lungs are a piece of you," Scientia says firmly. 

Luna smiles at her, too.

"Now," Scientia says in her usual brisk manner, "would you like to go home or stay and hear the reports of what happened during the invasion?"

"Stay," Luna and Ignis both chorus. 

"We _get_ to?" Ignis adds, looking pleased.

"Well, you're certainly in the thick of it now," Scientia says, looking a touch rueful. "I doubt any of us realized quite how – eventful – these Covenants would be."

They all go to the sitting room, where poor Mr. Amicitia is still being patched up by his wife while Gladio watches worriedly, since Mr. Amicita refused to go to the hospital and take room from someone who probably needed it more, in his words. Luna’s not sure that was a good decision; he looks _awful_. 

At least the King and Queen are all right, and the Kingsglaive they like, too, like the Ulric twins, even if Hemera has a nasty bandage on her arm and Libertus has a broken leg in a cast. 

It's been hours and hours since they first arrived back, but this is the first opportunity they've had to all settle down and talk about what happened - everyone's been too busy putting down the last few daemons and restoring order to the city and capturing any remaining Kingsglaive traitors, and that's still ongoing, left in the hands of Cor's trusted Crownsguard lieutenants. 

"So, today we went to form a Covenant with Titan," Cor says after a few moments of collectively stunned silence. "What'd we miss?"

That gets a laugh out of the room. 

"I think you can gather the general outline of what happened here," King Regis says wryly. "And even _I_ don't know all of the specifics yet. We'll be doing clean-up for days, if not weeks, yet to come"

"There is one thing I'd like to mention to the group up front, though," Mr. Amicitia says, frowning. "I was assigned to lead the division of the Crownsguard meant to arrest the emperor – unsuccessfully, as you can see –"

"How _did_ that happen?" Cor asks, frowning as well. "You're easily a match for any of the MT guards they had, much less any of Niflheim's 'taur officers."

"I am," Mr. Amicitia says. "But not, it seems, for their Chancellor. He went through us like a knife through butter, and barely bothered straightening his posture to do it."

"Is he the Accursed?" Luna asks eagerly. She _thinks_ he is, but it's not like they have any reason to know for sure.

"Still unconfirmed," Mr. Amicitia says, "but let's say – it seems reasonable."

"That would mesh with my observations as well," Queen Aulea says. "In fact, I'm hunting down a lead at the moment – Cyrella, your assistance in the library would be invaluable here –"

"Of course," Cyrella says. 

"But that matter can be discussed further later," Queen Aulea continues, much to Luna's disappointment. "I take it from Titan's guest appearance that the Covenant was successful? I would appreciate the details."

The rest of the evening is mostly spent rehashing things and getting damage reports, which isn't quite as interesting as Luna thought it would be. And she's also extremely tired, so she's more relieved than she'll ever admit when Scientia insists that they go home after only a few hours.

Iggy complains, but a yawn breaks through right as he's trying to point out why he can stay, so Scientia doesn't accept his arguments.

When they get home, Luna wants nothing more than her bed, but it was a very exciting day, a very _dangerous_ day. She's sure her mother will want to hear that she's doing fine, so, as much as she prefers to go straight to bed, she sits down at the little long-distance camera-phone set up she has on her desk and calls Tenebrae.

There's no answer.

Frowning, Luna tries again, but still – no luck.

Well, that happens sometimes, when her mother or brother are too busy to take her call. They'll call her back soon enough.

She goes to bed, secure in that knowledge.

That security becomes increasingly frayed when, over the next week, Tenebrae stubbornly refuses to either call her or answer her calls. 

"I don't know what to _do_ ," Luna stresses to Scientia. "I don't want to bother King Regis with this – he's supervising all the rebuilding and everything –"

"It's important," Scientia tells her. "Not just because _you're_ important, though of course you are, but because your mother is one of our allies. I'll set up a meeting with King Regis this afternoon, and I'll be happy to come with you when you talk to him, if you like."

"Yes please," Luna says, because she might be fourteen and have known King Regis for years now, but he's still scary when he's sitting on his throne. 

King Regis listens to her concern and promises to make a few calls of his own, and, if those result in nothing, to send someone undercover to find out what's happened.

And so Luna waits, filling her time with school, and extra fighting lessons, and talking on her camera-phone with Cindy now that the other 'taur has all the pieces she needed to build her own receiver. 

A month goes by, and then another, including Prompto's blissfully uneventful (albeit restricted to Insomnia) birthday party.

King Regis tells Luna that they've sent someone to go find out what's going on, and that they have a new receiver with them in case all that's happened is that the old one broke.

That's reassuring, a little, but not as much as she'd like. She wants news. She wants news _now_!

Sadly, the universe does not align itself with her whims, so she resigns herself to waiting. 

Luna's in school when the call finally comes.

"– when I said now, I mean _now_ ," she hears Scientia saying from the corridor, sounding irritated, and gathers up her books with an apologetic smile at her classmates, who smile back, and slips out with a nod of approval from her teacher.

"I've gotten all my things," Luna says, seeing an annoyed Scientia with a harried-looking vice-principal. "Shall I be excused for the rest of today?"

"Yes," Scientia says before the vice-principal can respond. "Come along, Luna."

Luna comes along.

"What's going on?" she asks when they're in the car heading back to the Citadel. "Is everyone all right?"

If someone needs her healing – but no, she only does her healing sessions once a week, under Scientia's close observation to ensure that she's not over-extending herself – but maybe one of the children? Noctis?

"Everyone's fine," Scientia says. "Your mother called."

Luna brightens. "That's wonderful news! At last! What was it – _did_ the receiver break?"

"In a sense," Scientia says, and says no more.

Luna rushes into King Regis' secondary office, since he also has a receiver there and her mother would more likely have called him than her given the time of day, not to mention the diplomatic protocol involved. 

When she gets there, though, King Regis and Queen Aulea are there, and they look grave, and her mother is on the screen, and her steely mother’s eyes are wet with tears.

Belatedly, Luna begins to worry. "What's wrong?" she asks, looking at the adults. "Mother, what's happened? You got the new receiver working -"

"It's your brother," Queen Aulea says gently. "He's been taken by Niflheim; they broke the receiver to cover their tracks."

Luna staggers back, covering her mouth with her hand.

"It's worse than that," Luna's mother says, covering her eyes with her hands. "Ravus – Luna, Ravus went with them _willingly_."

* * *

"We will have to put our plans for the Inferniad on hold, of course," Regis tells Cor. "Which was likely the purpose of this gambit, assuming the Chancellor is in fact the Accursed."

Cor nods, agreeing. There is simply no way they can afford to split their forces for the Inferniad – every children's story and historical record they can find have all confirmed that Ifrit's fallen body, or his consciousness' consignment to deep storage if you preferred to think of it that way, had been rather notoriously placed within the Rock of Ravatogh, Lucis' most fearsome volcano.

A volcano, unfortunately, positioned very close to the border with Niflheim and Accordo. 

Niflheim would need only send its fleet of airships to secure the location, and from reports they've been receiving, they already have. 

That leaves only two approaches to get to the volcano: stealth, by some means they have not yet figured out, or a full-frontal attack. 

Kidnapping Ravus Nox Fleuret was a very effective way to ensure that the latter option would not be feasible. Niflheim – or rather, its too-intelligent Chancellor – undoubtedly knows that Luna is being fostered in Lucis, and that Sylvia would demand Lucis' help in retrieving her son. Lucis could not afford to refuse, having taken the woman's daughter from her. 

And so Cor was assigned to go attempt a rescue, and an elite division of the Crownsguard was to go with him as well; without them, no reasonable attack could be waged.

There was still some time before the Inferniad, but none of them thought the current situation likely to resolve in time. 

"I would appreciate you taking some Kingsglaive with you as well," Regis adds. "The morale in that unit has been very low, given the ongoing trials."

Scientia is taking perhaps more glee than she ought to in ensuring that each and every traitorous wretch receives every single possible right they are due under the Lucis Charter, and rubbing it in their faces while she's at it. Her comparison of the laws of Lucis and Niflheim – pointing out that as traitors to the state, they would probably have just been shot on sight or possibly handed over as living specimens for experimentation if they had been prisoners of Niflheim – are growing increasingly less subtle. 

Cor is in favor, though Regis worries that she's being cruel. Clarus is firmly on Scientia's side, though: he thinks that her comparisons might even be breaking through the shell of lies they've all told themselves, and possibly offering hope of eventual rehabilitation – though of course they will never be trusted with military service or even unmonitored access to the Citadel again. 

The penalty for having been very good liars.

But for all that, it cannot be denied that morale amongst the Kingsglaive is in fact very low. The betrayals gave support to the unfounded accusations of their most bitterly xenophobic critics, who alleged that refugees would never truly become loyal to their new home and would thus turn on it at the first instance. Worse, the remaining Kingsglaive can't even defend themselves - the betrayals did occur, and Drautos/Glauca's particular choice of rhetoric had become public - other than to point out that most of the Kingsglaive did _not_ betray Lucis, and that it was the Kingsglaive that suffered the highest casualties in opposing the traitors.

It wasn't much balm, though, especially during the seemingly endless series of funerals for the Kingsglaive that had been killed by 'taurs they considered to be brothers and sisters, often quite literally by being stabbed in the back.

No, the Kingsglaive needs something to cheer it back up, some heroism they can point to and say: we did that, for you. We are still willing to do what we must for Lucis, for Insomnia, for us all.

"I was already planning on it," Cor tells Regis. "I'm going to split up our attack, creating two teams: a larger armed force consisting of the main Crownsguard force, led by Monica, which will go straight to Tenebrae, focusing on liberating Sylvia's manor and assisting with the search using that as a springing off point, in case they've hidden Ravus near there, and a smaller strike force, let by me, to go straight into Niflheim to try to see if we can find him hidden in Gralea."

"Niflheim's capital," Regis murmurs. “That’ll be dangerous.”

Cor inclines his head slightly. "Agreed. As I said, I will lead the second strike force personally. Additionally, I plan to take some Kingsglaive – they're more accustomed to independent movement than the Crownsguard, since they're not as familiar with regular formation training."

"That makes sense," Regis says. "Not to mention the optics of the Immortal willingly going into battle supported by only Kingsglaive, demonstrating trust in them...yes, very good. You have my blessing – take whomever you like."

"I'll take the Ulric twins," Cor says.

"Oh?" Regis says, his eyebrows arching. "I'd rather thought that you'd want them to stay here - for the new leadership of the Kingsglaive...?"

Cor snorts. Regis _would_ think that – he was never much of a war-leader, but then that's why he has Clarus and Cor. 

"They're fantastic soldiers, and excellent leaders in the field," he says gently. "But they'd be _awful_ captains. They're heroes by nature, not soldiers: they want to protect people from bad things, and that includes war. They'd name themselves to head every awful mission, just to spare others from having to do it; they'd refuse to assign the best people to the job for sentimentality's sake; and they'd probably get themselves dramatically killed by sheer over-exhaustion at the first instance."

"Never heard of anyone like that before," Clarus says dryly from where he's curled up on a couch. His injuries are healing well, though he's still bandaged up. "Not once."

"I," Cor says with dignity, "grew out of it. And they might, too, but they're not there yet. Besides, you've seen the quality of their paperwork."

Regis and Clarus wince. In the last few months, they've been jointly acting as the Kingsglaive's direct commander. Cor has taken a particular delight in forcing them to do all the paperwork that comes with the job – more, since they have to review Drautos’ past paperwork as well. At least for that project they have Scientia’s army of lawyers to explain the nuances, but the new documents? It’s all them.

Even for men accustomed to the paperwork of government, the paperwork of the military is an unpleasant beast of burden.

“No, they’re definitely not captain material, at least not yet,” Cor says firmly. “They’re heroes, and Kingsglaive needs heroes right now; I’m going to take them and give them a chance to do what they do best.”

“Any suggestions on who _should_ be the next captain, then?” Clarus asks.

“Libertus.”

“ _Libertus_?”

“Basically all of the Kingsglaive like him, he’s moderately easy-going but doesn’t let people walk all over him, he’s a decent fighter but a better strategist, and he has an entirely instinctual but very good code of ethics,” Cor says with a shrug. “And he somehow gets all of his paperwork done on time, which is frankly a miracle.”

Regis and Clarus look marginally convinced by that last one. 

“Take it under advisement,” Cor suggests. “I’ll go pack.”

Packing, however, is complicated by the fact that when he gets home, there’s an overgrown puppy sitting in his pack instead of his clothing.

“Prom,” Cor says.

“I want to come with you,” Prompto says firmly. 

“Prompto,” Cor says again.

“It’s _Niflheim_ ,” Prompto insists. “I’m a skeleton key, remember?” He waves his barcoded wrist. “I’d be _useful_.”

“ _Prompto_. No.”

“Why _not_?”

“Because you’re _nine_. I’m not taking a nine-year-old into a battlefield. Not on purpose, anyway!”

“But –”

“ _No_ , Prompto.” Cor lifts Prompto out of his bag and puts him down near the door. “This one’s just me.”

“It’s _always_ just you,” Prompto grumbles.

“Yes,” Cor says. “Because I’m an adult.”

“Just like you were when you joined the Crownsguard?” Prompto asks innocently, looking up through his eyelashes.

“Nice try, sneaky,” Cor tells him. “I was older than you are now.”

 _By at least four years_ , he tells himself virtuously. _Maybe something like three and a half if you want to be bothered by little things like rounding and birth certificates. Damnit, it still counts._

Judging from the look Prompto is giving him, Cor’s not doing a great job keeping an entirely straight face about it. 

Also, Gladio, at eleven, is getting _dangerously_ close to thirteen. 

He really hopes they finish the whole Prophecy before then, or he'll totally run out of decent arguments.

Somehow divining the direction of Cor's thoughts, Prompto sits back on his hindquarters, crosses his arms, and says, "If _Gladio_ was the one –"

"He isn't," Cor says firmly. "Besides, he'd be staying home _anyway_ to take care of his dad. Remember that?"

Prompto looks a little shamefaced for a moment, remembering Clarus' injuries, but quickly rallies with, "Iggy –"

"Is trying to comfort Luna, given how upset she is over Ravus’ defection. And Noctis is _your age_ , so don't even try."

"Noct can do the summoning thing," Prompto points out. "No one else can. He'd be useful, too."

Cor sighs and settles down on his underbelly to look at Prompto. "Prom, I'm not refusing to take you because you won't be useful. I'm refusing to take you because you could be in _danger_ , and I don't want that to happen."

"Danger's a part of life," Prompto replies. He sounds like he's quoting someone. Probably Cor. "It's how you prepare for it and how you handle it that matters."

Definitely Cor. 

Damnit.

"Prom –"

"You said I could get a present or a privilege if I exceeded my shooting targets," Prompto says. "I did. Two days ago. I want to come with you."

"Prom –"

"This is what I want!"

Cor hates saying no to Prompto. But sometimes a 'taur's gotta do what a 'taur's gotta do.

"No, Prompto. You're not coming with me."

"Fine," Prompto explodes, his eyes suddenly filling with tears. "You go by yourself and maybe get _hurt_ like Gladio's dad or – or – or _worse_ , just because you wouldn't take me, and then I'll be sad and it'll be all your fault! So there!"

"Prompto –"

But Prompto is already turning and fleeing to the door. "Guess I'd better say goodbye now," he says, sniffling. "Since you're probably gonna be gone soon. But I'm still mad!"

And then he runs out.

Cor didn't even get his usual pre-mission good-luck hug.

He feels bereft. 

"Six, what he'll be like as a teenager," Cor murmurs, scrubbing at his face. "I don't even want to know."

He hopes that his bright, sunny Prompto rethinks his decision not to say goodbye any further, but he doubts it – Prompto's definitely absorbed Cor's stubbornness.

No – best to just accept the way things are. They'll make up when he gets back.

Besides, if the worst should happen, he's written letters for Prompto to open, reassuring him of his love for him, his pride in his development, everything. Cor rewrites those letters twice each year, updating it with new details, new compliments, to make sure they're as good as he can get them. 

It won't be enough, he doesn't kid himself about that. But it'll be – something.

Cor turns back to his packing. 

A 'taur's gotta do what a 'taur's gotta do...

* * *

Nyx is honestly shocked that Cor Leonis has lived as long as he has.

"You – _you_ – the Immortal – head of the Crownsguard – most well-known fighter in Lucis – have been to Niflheim before – _how many times_?!"

"I've lost count," Cor (the reckless bastard) says with a shrug. 

“And after all that, the best you can do is tell us that it’s _cold_?!”

"Well. It _is_ cold."

"What a characteristically effusive description," Hemera signs, rolling her eyes. "Please, tell us what you really think."

Cor shrugs. 

"Remind me about the part where we need all the luggage?" Nyx asks, jerking his head back towards the literal _crates_ of luggage they have on the back of the truck. "Seems unnecessary. I thought you told us to pack _light_."

"Those crates are necessary."

"But there's nothing in them but clothing!" Nyx protests.

"You looked?"

"Well, at one of them..."

Cor looks long-suffering. "The luggage itself isn't important. _Having_ the luggage is important."

"How?" Hemera asks.

"The reason I've been so successful at smuggling myself into and out of Niflheim is that I do it a different way each time," Cor explains. "This time, since I have you two, we're going to go with the direct approach."

"I feel like there's a hidden jibe in there about Kingsglaive discipline," Nyx says to Hemera, shaking his head mock-mournfully. He can only joke about it because he knows that of all people, Cor _wouldn't_. 

"Crownsguard humor," Hemera agrees. "Sad. Very sad."

"Shut up, both of you," Cor says, sounding amused – which is better than the rather gloomy he's sounded since he left Insomnia. Something to do with his kid; Nyx isn't sure what. 

"So what is the plan, and why does it involve luggage with clothing?" Hemera asks.

"You're going as a noble canidaetaur lady, Hemera," Cor says. "From Galahd; you're visiting Niflheim. You know they allow canidaetaurs in pretty liberally, even if they're from Lucis-aligned states."

"That's true," Hemera signs, but she's scowling. "But – a lady? Why?"

"Because then Nyx can go as your bodyguard, and since, as a lady, you'd never stoop to pantomime when someone doesn't understand you because of your deafness, that means I can go as your translator," Cor says. "Your meek, scholarly translator, who you have no choice but to take with you everywhere you go, even if it's technically barred to felidaetaurs."

"That's brilliant," Nyx says after a moment of sheer appreciation. "As a translator, they'd start seeing you less as a person and more as a floating narrative voice."

"Exactly," Cor says. 

"Meek?" Hemera signs doubtfully. "You?"

"I'm a decent actor when it calls for it," Cor says dryly. "Also, I have an ugly set of glasses – you'd be amazed how much they help."

Nyx can't _wait_ to see that.

"I see your tail wagging, Ulric First," Cor says warningly. 

"Who, me?" Nyx says, deliberately wagging it harder.

"I feel like I should be Ulric First for this trip," Hemera signs. "Given that I'm the noble lady and all. Ugh, does that mean I have to wear _jewelry_?!"

"Looks like it, _selena_ ," Nyx says fondly. "Also, we're getting close to the ferry to Altissia – Cor, should she change?"

"No, no need; changing on board is fine," Cor says. "The ship itself is secure – staffed and filled with people we trust. I want to leave as soon as we get to the port."

"And here I was hoping to experience Galdin Quay for myself," Nyx says, sighing over-dramatically. "The largest population of Galahdians outside of Galahd, you know. They might have _real_ food, not that bland stuff you makes us all live off in Insomnia."

"You'll live," Cor says.

Boarding the ferry is easy enough. Cor produces the snazzy new identity papers they're going to use. Hemera's is ridiculous – Lady Adrasteia delia Ushas, of the Laomedon Estates over on one of the northern isles. It's a real place, with a fairly notorious tendency to change hands between its many distant family members due to a very unfortunate testamentary decision made generations back . Nyx is Erebus Black, a longtime family retainer and her personal bodyguard, and poor Cor is Geryon Praeneste, a translator. 

"At least you got the names right," Nyx says cheerfully. "I was worried you used Lucian roots, instead of Galahdian ones."

Cor rolls his eyes. "You done checking us in?" he asks the guy in charge of greeting guests. "Good. Let's be off as soon as possible."

"We delayed departure of an earlier timed vessel for you," the guy says. "So you're the last guests; we can leave at once as soon as your luggage is stowed. Go make yourself comfortable – the journey will be about five hours long from Galdin."

"Five hours?" Nyx asks blankly. He can sail, though as an inlander he doesn't make too much of a habit of it, and he can read a map. "How?"

"There's a cruise element," the guy says with a shrug. "For fancy vessels like this one, we prefer the scenic – and, coincidentally, slightly safer – approach to Altissia. There are more direct routes, but..."

"Not as fancy, not as safe, gotcha."

Hemera pokes Cor, who has his eyes turned back to shore with a very un-Cor-like gloom again. "Let's get something to eat first."

Nyx approves of her plan – and not just because he's always hungry, the way she's always teasing him about. Cor's a leader, first and foremost, and he takes care to ensure that his people are full and energized.

Even if he does pick at the food on his own plate like it's personally offended him.

"You okay?" Nyx asks after a bit.

Cor shrugs. "I have a food thing," he says vaguely. "Hasn't acted up in a while. I'll get down enough to be functional, don't worry."

They spend about an hour at the ship's truly stellar buffet, clowning around a bit in hopes of lifting Cor out of his sulk. They're not entirely successfully, but he does start laughing at the lobster quadrille they put on, complete with Nyx singing the words. 

"All right," Cor says after a while. "Go get changed; if there's anything we need to fix, I want to know it now."

Nyx's outfit consists of an overcoat of dark greys and dark purples of the Laomedon estate, very stern but for the somewhat flouncy white shirt underneath – very piratical – which is pretty standard for more monied Galahdians to insist on for their households. He dabs kohl under his eyes, too, which he hasn't had to do for any practical purpose since he left Galahd, and braids the appropriately fierce set of beads into his hair: he's already got good luck ones for fighting, honor and good health in, but he adds loyalty and commitment, plus a whimsical strand signifying smooth sailing – which, in slang, is an indication that he's both single and open to sharing his next heat with the right 'taur if someone's interested. 

He's about halfway through touching up his tattoos with a henna overlay that suggests a slightly more conservative heritage when he hears the yelp.

He's out of the door in half a second. "Hemera! What is it?"

Cor's out there too, sword in hand.

"You're going to have to break that habit if you want to come off as meek, you know," Nyx tells him. Now that he's had a second to consider, Hemera's yelp was surprised but didn’t sound like she was either in pain or afraid.

Cor rolls his eyes. He's in a pretty clever variant of understated Lucian servant dress – same colors as Nyx, yet somehow desaturated and even more conservative a cut, more business-suit than soldier. His clothing is a bit too large for him, making him even thinner than he already is and hiding his powerful shoulders. He does, in fact, have a set of spectacles on that somehow manage to complete the effect of a weedy, anxious little man.

It’s – actually really effective. And super weird. 

Shit, how many people has Nyx overlooked while on guard duty if Cor the freaking Immortal can do _that_?

To avoid having to think about that too hard, Nyx knocks on his sister's door. " _Selena_? You okay?"

She knocks back 'yes, give me a second'.

"One sec," Nyx tells Cor.

"I know what that means, yes," Cor says dryly, putting away his sword. 

A few moments later, Hemera opens the door partway. "You will never believe what I found in the luggage next to my dresses," she signs, looking exasperated, and then she opens the door the rest of the way and drags forward –

"Prompto!" Cor exclaims, rushing forward and embracing him.

"Hi, Cor," Prompto replies, smiling broadly and hugging him back. 

"What are you _doing_ here?" Cor demands after a few seconds. "I told you that you couldn't come!"

"I'm your skeleton key," Prompto says firmly. "I'm not gonna let you go without me."

"You do know I've been in Niflheim multiple times before, right?"

"Yes, but you've never been to Zegnautus Keep," Prompto replies. "I heard you and Uncle Clarus talking about it."

"Zegnautus Keep?" Nyx echoes, eyebrows arching. "No wonder you needed a noble lady involved, if you wanted to get an invite in _there_. Isn't that a giant airship that's only sometimes a city?"

"It's the seat of the Emperor when he's at Gralea," Cor says. "If Ravus went willingly, like Sylvia says, and they decided to leave Tenebrae, then that'll be where in Niflheim they take him. His pride won't permit anything less. Prom, I have half a mind to turn this ship around right now and send you back home!"

"Does that mean you have half a mind that you _won't_?" Prompto says hopefully. "You'd lose a lot of time that way, you know."

Cor sighs. "Prom, we're going undercover –"

"I know!" he interrupts. "I got Noctis to lend me some of his court clothing; I'll fit in with the nobility disguise, no problem!"

"Noctis?" Cor says, sounding alarmed. "Prom, if Noctis is there, I _am_ turning this ship around, time loss or no time loss!"

"No, no," Prompto says quickly, though his tail's started going a million miles an hour at the suggestion in Cor's voice that he might _not_ get left behind. "He had to stay back at home, since he's helping out with the rebuilding effort and doing a lot of public appearances and charity visits and stuff. Iggy's helping him with all of that, plus he's got to take care of Luna, and Gladio has to stay with Noctis 'cause he's his Shield and also 'cause of his dad –"

"Gladio knows he's not officially a Shield until he turns sixteen and gets his tattoo, right?" Cor asks, clearly having given up on turning the ship around, to judge by the way he's absently started grooming Prompto's fur and the way his tail has gone all relaxed and happy. 

"He's still a Shield, even if it's unofficial," Prompto says firmly. "And that's everyone accounted for, except for me, and I'm with you."

Cor groans. 

"He can be my son," Hemera signs. "I'll be a tragic widowed heiress, taking her only son and heir to visit the land of his father – a dashing Niflheim sailor who visited Galahd only briefly before dying tragically saving lives in a storm –"

"Glacian's jewels, Hemera, where'd you get that from?" Nyx exclaims. "A _romance novel_?"

"Telenovela, actually," she says, grinning. "They're kind of addictive. I've gotten Libertus into them – you're next."

"Fuck no I'm not next."

Cor has his eyes covered. "This is a terrible idea," he grumbles. 

"But you're doing it, right?" Prompto asks eagerly.

Cor taps Prompto's nose with a finger, causing the puppy to giggle and hide his face. "I'm going to need you to be very careful, okay?" he says. "First sign of serious danger, you're going back on the boat."

Prompto's nodding furiously. 

"You have a screwed up sense of danger, boss," Nyx can't resist telling Cor, even though it makes Prompto give him a dirty look. "You sure this is a good idea?"

"It's Niflheim," Cor says, like that explains anything. Perhaps figuring out from Nyx's glare that he needs to expand on that, he adds, "Prompto's originally from Niflheim – possibly even from Gralea proper. It's an important part of his heritage, and I don't want to keep him from it."

"An important part of his heritage which we're _at war with_ ," Nyx points out. "And currently _infiltrating_."

Cor makes a face. "In my defense, it isn't actually the stupidest thing I've ever done."

"Knowing you? That's totally not a defense," Hemera signs. "Come on, kiddo," she adds to Prompto, who – thank the Six – is fluent in LSL after all these years. "Let's get you dressed up – luckily your hair is just long enough for some proper braids – oh, and we'll get some henna on you, too –"

Nyx shakes his head in amusement. "We'll keep an eye on him, boss," he tells Cor. "Don't worry. We're really good at playing up the stereotypical Galahd thing when we need to – no one will question our disguises."

"I hope I'm doing the right thing," Cor murmurs, looking at Hemera's now-closed door with no little anxiety. "He's so young..."

Nyx clasps his shoulder. "He's clearly coming along whether you want him to or not," he tells him. "Might as well keep him safe and close to you. Turning around now would nuke the entire mission – the Niffs know our ferry schedules, and they have eyes in Accordo."

"I know," Cor says. "That's the only reason I'm agreeing."

He reaches over and snags a sandwich that Nyx smuggled out of the buffet for later. Taking a nice, big bite, he says, "Say, do you think the buffet's still open? Prom might be hungry."

"I'll check," Nyx offers, hiding his smile. In his opinion, this mission's chances of success just went up considerably: Cor is pretty fearsome as a general rule, but in a good mood and with a kid to protect?

Gralea doesn't stand a _chance_.


	22. 22

Prompto thinks Altissia is _so cool_. 

It's no Insomnia, of course, he mentally adds in a guilty aside, but _seriously_ , Altissia is basically a giant playground. There's water everywhere, with _boats_ you can _ride in_ like you're riding a taxi except with the sea wind in your fur, and there are pretty fountains everywhere you can throw coins into and splash a little in (just with your hands or someone will yell), and there are stairs to go up and stairs to go down, and hallways and shops and – and –

"This place is exhausting," Nyx whines under his breath. "I wish I could just warp around – are those _more stairs_?!"

Nyx is such a spoilsport sometimes. 

Prompto's run up and back down the shiny cool stone steps like three times by now, just out of excitement. He has no idea why Nyx is complaining.

But what Prompto really loves is all the different _‘taurs_. 

It's a bit like the time they visited Galahd, with its beach-land sailors – otters and seals, jaguars and water-dogs – but Altissia has even _more_ of those: at least a dozen seal species, from brown to grey to spotted, and otters and beavers and all other aquatic-adjacent mammals.

In fact, one of Cor's old friends (maybe?), the one who is helping arrange their travel onwards, is a big stately old walrus 'taur named Weskham, with a big belly and fins instead of paws.

Fins! Instead of _paws_!

Weskham usually gets around the land-friendly areas in his bar by dragging himself forward on his belly, or by slipping into one of the pools that dot the whole place, but for longer walks through Altissia he has two options: he can glide along in the slippery slide-like mini-canals that go along each street for people who want to swim instead of walk (except apparently Prompto isn’t allowed to for stupid reasons that no one will explain to him), or, even more interestingly, he can use a big long hoverboard, not unlike a sled, that floats an inch or two above the ground. It’s powered by magnets, Weskham tells Prompto with a smile: Altissia's built with magnets alongside its cobblestones to ensure that its more aquatically inclined population can get around without difficulty, especially in light of all the stairs.

"That's a great idea," Prompto exclaims, eyeing the hoverboard with a sense of acquisitiveness and wicked thoughts relating to certain long stretches of rooftop back at home. "We should have something like that! Co-uh, Geryon, wouldn't that be useful? You wouldn't have to walk if, say, you broke two or three of your legs or something! Or even if you just didn't feel like it!"

"While I don't disagree with you in principle," Cor says, "I think walking to school is the only exercise Noctis gets."

Prompto has to concede the point: Noctis likes his sleep, and his naps, and also sitting around in the loaf pose. 

A lot. 

"Well, what about everyone else?" Prompto asks. "There's lots of people who could use it –"

But Cor is shaking his head. "Implementation costs," he says. "Unfortunately; otherwise it would be an excellent idea. As it is, Insomnia's mostly flat – currently it’s still easier to just provide wheelchairs to individuals under their insurance than to install a whole city-wide maglev system like Altissia."

"You know, I'm not sure about that," Weskham says. "Maybe that was true once, but we’ve made some considerable advancements in making implementation cheapter. In fact, from what I remember from the last Altissa expansion –"

Prompto loses interest in their conversation quickly thereafter and gallops over to one of the spice stands, which is filled with interesting smells and colors.

Hemera buys him a thing on a stick, and it's delicious even though Prompto can't pronounce the name. Cor is translating for her, which is his secret undercover job: Prompto's going to have to try very hard to remember to call him Geryon, and Nyx Erebus. At least he can just call Hemera 'Mom', even if it takes them both a while to stop wrinkling their noses at how _weird_ it is.

Not as weird as how Cor's managed to turn himself almost – small. He's hunched over and scurries from place to place, looking apologetic and anxious, which means Prompto keeps wanting to give him a hug and tell him everything's okay. It's a bit distressing, actually – if Prompto didn't know it was part of the undercover, he'd be really worried.

At least his own undercover outfit is pretty cool. He looks like a Galahdian with slightly short hair – braids and beads signifying good luck and health and growth, and cool make-up, and even a bunch of bracelets because Galahdian style tends towards the super ornate, including one with a little butterfly clasped around the base of his tail.

He worried for a bit that it looked like a bow – there was one dreadful summer when Insomnia fashion lost its mind and thought that plopping giant bows on one's hindquarters was an interesting fashion statement, regardless of gender, and that meant just about everyone was wearing it – but the grown-ups assured him that it's just a nice accent.

Best of all, though, pretending to be a spoiled noble is so much _fun_. He gets to point at stuff he wants and whine and sometimes he even gets it! Mostly souvenirs for his friends rather than toys for himself, but he gets them!

As a result, he's a bit sad to leave the city after so short a time – they only stay one night – but on the other hand, he's never been on a train as grand and impressive as the Red Train before, so it's okay.

This is going to be a great trip, Prompto's sure of it.

Unfortunately, after about twenty minutes of watching identical scenery zoom by outside the window, and about an hour running up and down the train, Prompto gets bored.

"Are we there yet?" he asks Hemera.

"The answer hasn't changed in the last five minutes," she signs back wearily. "Please stop asking."

"But I just wanna _know_ –"

"Stop being a pest."

"I'm not a pest!"

"Pest. Pest, pest, pest –"

"Now who's being a pest?" Nyx mumbles.

"It's a very long trip, Prompto," Cor says. They decided not to change Prompto's name, since no one would know it anyway, and also they weren't sure if he'd remember to react to another name. Prompto isn’t entirely sure, either, so he’s okay with it, even though it would've been nice to have a cool Galadhian name for a while. "Why don't you take a nap?"

"I'm not tired," Prompto declares. "Besides, what if I miss something?"

"We'll wake you up if anything happens," Nyx says. "Promise."

He even crosses both his hearts, once over his chest and one near his belly. 

"At least lie down," Cor says coaxingly. "You don't have to sleep if you don't want to."

"Fine," Prompto sniffs. "But you'll see that I'm not even a little bit tired. I'm not a little kid anymore, you know, I don't need _naps_."

"Of course not," Cor says. "But it's been a very exciting day or two, and we had to get up very early to catch the first train, so I thought you might be behind on your sleep a little, that's all."

Prompto huffs, but since he's unable to find a problem with Cor's logic, he hops up onto the seat and tries to curl up with Cor. A glance reminds him that he's supposed to be pretending, so he curls up and puts his head on Hemera's back instead. 

"If I do fall asleep, you'll wake me up if we see anything interesting?" he asks again. Not because he's actually going to fall asleep, of course, but because his eyes are a little heavy and, well, they did get up awful early. Maybe resting his eyes a little isn't a bad idea.

"Absolutely," Nyx confirms.

"And even if we don't, don't let me sleep past –" he looks up at the little map by the wall that lists out the upcoming stops. There's an awful lot of them. Prompto picks one at random. "– past Succarpe, okay?"

"You've got it, kiddo," Nyx says, and Hemera nods as well.

Cor is looking out the window with a thinking frown. "Succarpe," he murmurs. "Now – where did I hear that before..?"

If he figures out the answer to that, Prompto doesn't know it, because he's asleep before Cor even finishes the sentence.

* * *

Hemera sometimes – even fairly often – resents how people's eyes tend to glaze over after they see her hands moving, mentally labeling her "the deaf one" and moving on with their lives, her presence and personality forgotten in a blur whose only identifiable characteristic is her disability.

On the other hand, it makes espionage quite _so_ freaking easy.

She's dressed to the nines in old-fashioned Galahdian style, streaks of color on her face and enough jewelry to qualify as training weights, and she _still_ sees people describe her as "that deaf lady" three seconds later, unable to offer any further description.

Seriously, she sent Nyx to test it. There's maybe one in five that even remembers her (obviously displayed) nationality, and no one that remembers even obvious identifying features like her hair and eye color. 

It's pretty cool.

Unlike Niflheim, which is not cool. It's freaking _cold_.

"Is that the Glacian?" Prompto asks, staring out the window. He rather enjoyed their brief layovers in Succarpe and Eusciello and even Tenebrae – they stayed on the train at the last of those, not wanting to blow their disguises - but that's nothing compared to the sheer wonder in his voice when he looks upon the face of a goddess.

Hemera heard that they met her in person, Shiva, disguised as a Messenger, but she figures that that experience is probably pretty different from seeing a head that's two to three times as tall as an average 'taur. 

"Yes," Cor says. "Her head has fallen here, by the train station, but her body extends far backwards, her white hindquarters resting far down in the chasm below. You can't see it properly from here – the Ghorovas Rift is now trapped in an eternal blizzard."

"The White Hart," Nyx murmurs, sounding impressed. "Lady Shiva herself."

"The Ceryneian Hind, you mean," Prompto says, rearing back and squinting like he thinks he can catch a glimpse regardless. "Not a heart."

Hemera taps him on the shoulder and signs, "The White Hart is another one of her names. And it's H-A-R-T, not H-E-A-R-T."

"Ooooooh. Cool."

"Not cool," she signs. " _Cold_."

Prompto giggles. _He_ doesn't seem all that cold, because of course he wouldn't be - she's figured out pretty quickly that kids are never anything convenient. 

At least he appreciated her pun. Nyx’s pained expression indicates that he most certainly did not.

Ugh, Hemera misses Scientia. Now _there’s_ a ‘taur who can appreciate a good (or really bad) pun.

The Vôglîupe station on the edge of Niflheim is fully staffed by MT guards, examining the luggage and checking papers and generally looming like it's their job, but Hemera can't help but notice that it's not that busy. For a stopping-point that’s supposed to be the main hub before the final journey to Gralea, she would have thought that it would have drawn in all the commuters, the country folk, all of that, the same way Insomnia does. Sure, she's heard that Niflheim cities are much smaller than Insomnia, but honestly, once you exclude the tourists and travelers coming in by train, this station has fewer 'taurs than one of _Galahd's_ main hubs. 

Do Niflheim 'taurs just not use the train? Or is this a separate platform from the intra-Niflheim trains?

Hemera entertains herself with these thoughts while they go through the interminable customs process.

Said customs processes are being run not by MTs but by proper officers, all dressed in Niflheim white-and-gold – ridiculous colors for a nation of snow, of course, since white shows _everything_ and stains quickly, but admittedly not _quite_ as dumb as wearing near-black for someone living on a _tropical island_ , so in view of keeping her cover intact by not getting into a fight over it, Hemera keeps quiet.

Given that no one around her speaks LSL, she's going to have to get used to doing that, or at least to people looking at Cor instead of her when _she's_ talking, which is one of the main reasons she's always preferred not to have an interpreter. Even pen and paper is better than being ignored, in her view. 

They finally get to the front of the line, the customs officer kissing ass as soon as he realizes she has money to spend and not-so-subtly soliciting a bribe to make the customs process go faster – which is awful and makes Hemera fancy that she can see Cor getting mad over deep underneath the opaque shell of his disguise – though of course he phrases the requests as wanting to get them special services so they can get indoors quickly "for the sake of the child".

They pay, naturally, but not too much, causing the interest to fade out of his eyes when he realizes they're either miserly or not as well off as he hoped. 

With that done, the rest of the journey is over almost before they realize it.

And then they're in Gralea.

Hemera's heard about Gralea before: this region of Niflheim was once practically desert, its rains choked off by the great mountain they sit very nearly on the foot of, before it was transformed into tundra by the corpse of the Glacian; Gralea was a less important city then, a frontier city. It still retains some sense of its original architecture, even after its intense and abrupt transformation.

Gralea of the Many Windows, they used to call it; the outpost of the empire. 

Where the buildings were built dark and dusty, because of the sands that would leach off any paint soon enough, but where each window – a necessity to help cool down in a desert climate – was filled with color. Niflheim's non-oceanside answer to Galahd: where everyone wore as many layers as Galahdians didn't, covered from head to toe and favoring headwraps that covered their hair, but just like Galahd, the colors were loud and gaudy, the 'taurs expert travelers through their own sea of sand, and the streets filled with the chatter of salespeople and buskers and hawkers.

The streets are practically empty, now.

Gralea's many windows are all shuttered against the cold. Its citizens still wear their many layers, even their faces and heads draped in fabric as was their peculiar fashion, but the cheerful colors are gone, their famous lightweight fabrics – cambrics and muslins so sheer that they were a joy to run your fingers through – replaced with heavy wools and thermals that they import from the north as they desperately try to rebuild their architecture to something that could be insulated against the endless chill. Their famous bathhouses, filled with pools, have been transformed into steam rooms and saunas; their famous markets have moved indoors, away from the bitter cold; their famous caravan routes are still active, but not nearly so crowded, their finest guides' skills useless in this new environment. 

Only their mountain remains the same, the gigantic inescapable presence that looms over the city; once cursed for blocking the rain, so now is it blessed for stopping the precipitation that comes as icy blizzards instead of the cool rains of winter that they were accustomed to. The mountain is a constant companion to the citizens of the city, impossible not to see from just about everywhere in Gralea. 

And Gralea, poor Gralea, changed in another way, too: the emperor, proud of having defeated a goddess but not quite insane enough to try to actually live in Vôglîupe or near the Ghorovas Rift itself, ordered the construction of Zegnautus Keep, a new seat of imperial might, and he brought his famous Floating Palace to Gralea to dock. 

No more did Gralea live on the outskirts, the borderland where the empire's hand fell only lightly – now the emperor's forces man their checkpoints, watch over their people and police their streets.

No wonder the streets are empty.

Poor Gralea. 

The Emperor comes from what were once the colder regions of Niflheim, so he and his court had no difficulty adjusting to the weather and no sympathy for those in the streets who were drastically unprepared for their first winter. And the autocracy of Niflheim is as inexorable as the winter itself: the Emperor controls all branches of government, of course, but since he can’t _actually_ control everything, the ranks of his nobility function as the equivalent of some ever-expanding bureaucracy of paperwork and technology that churns endlessly and pitilessly – and _extremely_ ineffectively. 

Hemera has many critiques of the Lucian system of government, but at least it’s still better than the endless corruption of Niflheim, where access to justice depended on how much you could bribe or what strings you could pull or who you knew; where getting anything done required sign-off by a minimum of three different department, all of which demanded bribes and none of which could be done without; where posts of all sorts were inherited rather than filled based on merit.

No wonder poor Gralea couldn’t get any help from the uncaring system to help them adjust.

And yet, Hemera still wonders how the new capital could possibly be so neglected, so starved, so desperate, its streets so empty, a few bare handfuls of ‘taurs on each street corner, able to be counted in the dozens rather than the hundreds. It’s nothing like Insomnia – nothing even like the large towns of Galahd, all bright and colorful and excited –

A small hand slips into hers and squeezes.

Hemera looks down at Prompto, ready to comfort him with whatever she can think of to say, which she admits isn’t much, but his face doesn’t seem _upset_. 

It seems – 

Awed. 

“There’s so many of them,” he breathes. 

Hemera frowns. Prompto’s Insomnia-raised, same as Marshal Leonis: he should be accustomed to far more ‘taurs than there are here. 

She gently detatches his hand and signs, “What do you mean?”

“Canidaetaurs,” Prompto says. “Look – they’re _everywhere_!”

Hemera smiles. Of course Prompto would think that – he’s probably never seen so many of his own ‘taur species at one place, so many alike.

Or, well, _not_ alike, she mentally amends, reviewing the people in the street. Despite being one herself, she somehow always forgets just how _diverse_ canidaetaurs are, even just within the classic _Canis familaris taurus_ breeds that tend to populate Niflheim proper. Shapes, sizes, colors, _angles_...

"Just wait till you see Zegnautus Keep," she signs to him. "There'll be even more people there."

She assumes, anyway. The bureaucracy of Niflheim is legendary, and it all centers around the Emperor in his throne, so surely the famous Floating Palace of Niflheim – located on an airship called the Hanging Gardens, an airship so massive that it by itself constitutes the largest of all of Niflheim's cities, capable of escaping any hint of siege simply by taking flight, with dozens of smaller ships stored in its lower levels ready to fly out to protect it, storing MTs by the hundreds – will be filled with far more 'taurs. 

Won't it?

* * *

Cor has good instincts, and right now his instincts are screaming at him that things are bad. He doesn't know what, he doesn't know from where, he doesn't know how to stop it – all he knows is that it started when they passed the border crossing and entered Niflheim, and that it's only gotten increasingly worse from there. 

He could _kick_ himself for taking Prompto into this mess. 

Gralea is bad enough – a city that in his own lifetime was filled with light and warmth and laughter, now frozen over and deadened in spirit as much by its government as by the snow – but Zegnautus Keep?

Cor can scarcely resist the urge to pick up Prompto and run, and to keep running until he gets to the border back to _anywhere but here_. 

They're not even _inside_ the Six-bedamned palace yet.

The Keep itself is a vast underground complex, shallow in its hasty construction but still a monument to the towering edifice of Niflheim technology. The sole purpose of the Keep is to cradle and protect the Floating Palace whenever the Hanging Gardens comes to Gralea to dock, which is pretty often nowadays. It reminds Cor of mole tunnels, or anthills – the 'taurs that staff the Keep spend their days beneath the earth, cleaning and repairing the docking equipment if the Palace is absent, or on endless patrols and repairs of the Palace if it is present. 

They are currently in the line to get in, nominally seeking an imperial audience. Of course, Emperor Iedolas Aldercapt does not grant audiences in person, unlike Regis, who spends far too much of his time doing just that, and the most they can expect is to watch him from afar as part of an adoring crowd – and even that only when the Palace is in the air, to discourage would-be assassins by very visibly cutting off any exit route. 

There are still attempts sometimes, of course, usually native Niflheimians who have lost everything – and possibly some from Lucis, though in the entire time Cor has been Marshal of the Crownsguard he's never heard of one being sent. It doesn't mean there haven't been any, either on their own initiative or by the machinations of people who prefer not to include Cor in their planning, but it does mean that there is a frankly ridiculous amount of security to go through before getting in, especially if you are anything other than a common-breed _canis familiarius taurus_.

Luckily, Cor's plan accounted for that.

"Her Ladyship is most upset at this incessant questioning," Cor drones, keeping his voice soft and meek and monotonous. "It is intolerable that a Great Lady of Galahd such as Her Ladyship should be forced to be kept waiting due to the inflexibility of a pair of mere guard-dogs –" 

He lets a discreet little wince cross his face – it is, indeed, the word Hemera chose, but it is extremely rude, even from one canidaetaur to another – and the 'taurs manning the booth seem to soften a bit towards him at that sign of sympathy. 

"She wishes to inform you – ah, my apologies, she wishes for me to translate directly now – I say that if it is not obvious to all with eyes that the presence of an interpreter is a medical necessity, if it is not obvious to any with a brain in their heads, then I will challenge any who would argue with me to do so in my native tongue, you –" Here Cor pauses for a few moments as Hemera's hands continue to move in very wild, effusive gestures, including one or two that would be pretty easy to guess regardless of one's fluency in LSL. "– you – ah – honored gentlemen."

That is not an accurate translation.

The guards are very well aware of that, but they clearly appreciate Cor’s attempt at discretion anyway. 

"I've called my superior," one of the 'taurs at the gate says apologetically. "He's on his way right now – he can give the approval. It's just above my paygrade, that's all..."

Cor translates this for Hemera. 

"Absurd!" he translates in return, keeping his voice flat. "I have made a long journey at some expense and personal hardship to come here, to show my son the lands of his father – to show my son the face of his emperor – and now, _now_ you say that my way will be blocked and barred, for no other reason than rank prejudice of the worst kind, the most ridiculous kind –"

"Nothing of the sort, your Ladyship," another 'taur, dressed a degree higher in the noble ranks than those before them, says, hurrying out the side door. The relevant superior, no doubt. "We apologize for the inconvenience – having made you wait – I'm sure there will be no problem at all letting you go inside the Palace with your translator, escorted, of course –"

Cor translates this. Hemera proceeds to swell in rage, her fur poofing out as her hackles rise and her lips pull back from her teeth in a snarl.

"Is he questioning my honor? My _word_ , freely given? Is Niflheim so weak and afraid that it fears a single lady, with no living mate nor friends, alone, forsaken by all –"

Hemera is really getting into this. Even if her story seems suspiciously not unlike some particularly emotional old-style novels Cor vaguely recalls people saying that they read in school.

"– with only her young son for company –"

"I'm sure it's fine," the manager says, slightly wide-eyed and starting to lose coherence in the face of her wild hand-waving and Cor's impassively monotone recitation. "No one is questioning anything – entirely procedure – for your own comfort – a single MT, no more, just for the initial tour –"

"That is acceptable," Hemera sniffs, tossing her hair back. 

Cor does not translate the head toss, though he is dearly tempted to.

The guards look deeply relieved by her agreement, and with that, they're in. They agreed up front to try spoiled noble histrionics as a method to try to reduce the guard they were sure they'd get assigned because of Cor's presence, and Cor cautioned Hemera against overplaying her hand – the goal was for her to be offended, but not come off like she was hiding something or wanted to avoid an escort entirely, since that wasn't in keeping with the persona she's adopted. 

Getting it down to one MT, which all three of them could probably beat – honestly, _Prompto_ could probably beat a single MT, as long as it's not an axe-wielder and someone gave Prompto a gun to use – is an excellent result. 

Of course, they wouldn't have had to deal with the issue at all if it wasn't for Cor's felidaetaur hindquarters earmarking him as being a resident – or at least, originating from – the Lucian portion of the continent. If they'd been sneaking in anywhere but the Floating Palace itself, Cor might've been inclined to let Hemera and Nyx go on their own; they'd certainly proven themselves capable. 

But no – it _is_ the Floating Palace, and the home of the Emperor of Niflheim. That means that if there's a risk of another Glauca existing out there, with his metallic armor that he could summon at will and his strength far greater than any regular 'taur, he would more than likely be there. And if there's another Glauca, that means they need Cor.

It was a tricky fight against Drautos-Glauca, one of the hardest in Cor's life – not quite as brutally harsh and unforgiving as the Blademaster, of course, but probably the closest a one-on-one fight has ever gotten to that terrible memory. At least his battle with the Blademaster had taught him how to fight creatures that live entirely within their shells, the way Glauca hid inside his armor, but it hadn't just been that – Drautos had been living in the palace for years, and he'd studied up on Cor's fighting style in the process, watching him teach the Crownsguard recruits, observing Cor's own training routines, and training himself to fight back against him in specific. 

Cor eventually had to resort to the sort of undisciplined fighting he'd been so terribly good at as a child and hadn’t really used all that much since then: not bothering to plan out any of his moves in advance, just throwing himself forward at the enemy, maximizing the use of his speed, natural skill now joined with years of training to combine in unpredictable ways. It wasn't a very efficient way to fight, of course, and tactically it was rarely the optimal approach, but against someone who'd trained to find all the weaknesses in Cor's usual disciplined form and had never seen him fight like a berserker brawler the way he had before he'd learned that discipline, it was exceedingly effective. 

Still, defeating Glauca was tough. He doesn't think he'll have the same problem with any new versions, should they find any in the Palace, but it's still too much of a risk to send Nyx and Hemera in on their own. 

As it is, they go on a tour of the Palace, which somehow manages to be an even more boring version of every famous-old-house tour Cor's ever been on, and then they're plopped down into the gigantic audience chamber where, if they're lucky, they might see Emperor Aldercapt walking by at one point.

(A lie, of course: the Hanging Gardens are on the ground right now, and the Emperor would not show his face until they were in the air.)

"Excellent location," their tour guide boasts, showing them in. "One of the few remaining places for guests where you can have an unimpeded view –"

Unimpeded view apparently meaning nosebleed seats so far up that the Emperor would look the size of a child's doll. 

But it works for them, so they agree and stand there for an hour or so as if they're really hoping to catch a glimpse of the Emperor. Cor's particularly pleased that they avoided anything closer to the ground floor, where the higher ranked nobles swan in and out at will, conducting the Emperor's business in his name – some of them are generals, and might know his face the way servants and guards wouldn’t. 

After the first hour, though, they slip out the back and start wandering the halls on their own, adopting a purposeful stride that lets them appears as though they unquestionably belong.

" _Finally_ ," Prompto sighs in relief, which Cor finds rather rich given that _he_ was able to plead youthful boredom and play on the handheld game device Cor had purchased for him while the rest of them had to pretend to actually pay attention to an empty throne. 

Hemera rolls her eyes and swats him lightly on the head. "Where to now?" she signs. "I didn't see anywhere that seemed likely for them to keep Ravus."

"I didn't either," Cor says. It would've been good luck if they had, but they clearly aren't that lucky. "I think, however, that we might have more luck if we manage to figure out where exactly our friend the Chancellor is spending most of his days."

"Sounds like a plan," Nyx says, his voice a little creaky from having played the strong-but-silent bodyguard all day. He coughs a little, clearing his throat. "I saw some offices back portside, in the third sectional."

"Worth a shot."

The Hanging Gardens is a frankly enormous aircraft. Descriptions of it as a full floating city in its own right are not quite right, but they’re not that far off base, either. The upper portions are a maze of offices and official chambers, and the lower levels are reputed to house gigantic experimental laboratories, focused on developing Niflheim’s technology, and factories, available to manufacture more weapons and armor and even more magitek troopers on an as-needed basis when the usual supply from the factories on the ground is insufficient. 

They spend a good hour wandering the halls, checking unobtrusively as they go, before they find their way to the Chancellor's office. 

"I don't suppose he's in?" Nyx asks one of the door guards. MT, of course. 

They don't answer. MTs never do. 

"You wouldn't want to see him anyway, cutie," a female voice drawls from the corridor. They all turn: it's a Dragoon soldier, a snow leopard 'taur with silver hair and green eyes and a very low-cut top. Another felidaetaur, deep in the heart of Zegnautus Keep. 

_Commodore rank_ , Cor's mind supplies as his eyes scan her uniform – if the scrap of fabric she's wearing can really be counted as a uniform. _Army Corps 86th Airborne Unit._

He flips through his mental map, searching, until he lands on – Ah, yes.

Aranea Highwind. 

Mercenary, but given a Niflheim rank when she joined their forces. Refuses to permit MTs into her division, but is good enough at recruiting that it isn't a problem. Young for her job – nor much older than Nyx and Hemera – and her title is all but honorary, since she's given no control over any Niflheim troops, but still known to be very effective whenever she’s sent out. A rising star, by some standards. 

"Why's that, exactly?" Hemera signs, and Cor obediently repeats.

Aranea flutters her eyelashes. "I'm sure I can show you a better time than that boring old Chancellor." 

"I doubt it," Hemera signs, then adds the sign for "Tramp."

Aranea's eyes narrow.

Since Cor didn't translate that part of Hemera's comments, that means that Aranea understands LSL, a fact which is extremely useful to know. 

Cor mentally applauds Hemera's tactics.

"No, really," Aranea says, her voice still sugar-sweet but noticeably harder. "I'm afraid I insist."

Hemera heaves an over-dramatic sigh and strides after her, and the rest of them trail behind. Both Nyx and Hemera sneak opportunities to look at Cor who inclines his head at them and loosely forms the military signal for 'lead' with his hand, indicating that they should proceed with the conversation and he'll step in only when he has to.

Prompto also sneaks a glimpse up at Cor, who doesn't respond beyond a quick squeeze of his shoulder – an indication that Cor hasn't yet judged this situation beyond recovery, but that Prompto should stay close.

He’s trained them all very well. Cor is very pleased.

They end up in a dusty, clearly unused office room.

Aranea hops onto the desk, curling up her hindquarters into an especially haughty version of the loaf pose, and looks down at them.

"I know who you are," she announces. 

"I'm pleased," Hemera signs, and Cor translates. "Finally, someone who understands how important I am."

"How important –? No, not your cover identity. I know who you _really_ are. I know that you're Kingsglaive."

"That's ridiculous," Nyx says, but arches his eyebrows. "And if we were, wouldn't it be a bit stupid to be alone in a room with us?"

"I can hold my own," Aranea says arrogantly. "Besides – I think I know what you're here for."

"And what's that?" 

"A very special guest," Aranea says. "And I can tell you how to get right to him."

"And why would you, a Niflheim Commodore, want to do that, exactly?" Hemera signs, her face skeptical.

Aranea frowns at her. "Listen, just _saying_ what I'm saying is probably enough for you to get me written up on treason if you wanted to. Can't you drop the deaf act?"

"It's not an act," Hemera signs, arching her eyebrows. "I am, in fact, deaf."

Aranea glances at the rest of them for confirmation, but they’re all looking at her steadily.

"You're kinda mean," Prompto observes from behind Cor. "That wasn't a nice thing to say."

Aranea flushes. "Well, I'm not a nice person, kid," she says quickly, trying to recover.

"Why not?"

"What?"

"Why not?" Prompto asks. "Why not just be a nice person?"

Aranea looks desperately at the rest of them, but Nyx has started smirking, Hemera's eyebrows are still arched, and Cor is expressionless. "Because – uh – because – you see, in Niflheim – that is, growing up – oh, damnit, do you guys want me to take you to see Ravus or not?!"

Cor pats Prompto on the back approvingly. "Yes," he says. "We would like that."

Aranea looks at him for the first time, a little doubtfully. "Say," she says. "Do I know you..?"

"I thought you already recognized us?" Nyx interjects.

"I worked back-up in that battle near Myrlwood last year," she says. "Wasn't allowed to join in, though, so I got bored and watched instead - especially the Kingsglaive warping all around." She smirks. "I've always appreciated a fine set of hindquarters, and I couldn’t help but notice that the finest on the field came in both dark and light flavors."

Now it's Nyx's turn to flush red. "You recognized us by our _hindquarters_?!"

Hemera is laughing. "Told you we should've changed 'em, bro," she signs. "But you – why are you helping us? As you say, this is treason."

"Yeah, it is, and I want in," Aranea says. "Not to any particular treasonous plot, but to Lucis itself, ideally with a pardon for me and my soldiers – and yes, before you say anything, I know you might not have the power to offer that, but I'm willing to wait for word if that’s what’s needed. We don't expect you to use us anywhere sensitive, not after your whole Drautos problem –"

Both Nyx and Hemera wince. It's a sore spot.

"– but I want out of Niflheim and Lucis is the only alternative for a mercenary like me."

"You know that Lucis is _losing_ the war, right?" Hemera asks.

"It doesn't matter," Aranea says harshly. "Sure, I generally prefer to join up with the winners – especially where they pay – but there are some tactics I will not be a party to. I've found my line in the sand."

"What tactics?" Nyx asks. 

"Niflheim's using daemons," Aranea says. "I'm not sure what for, but they're capturing them - experimenting on them. I think they're trying to infuse their magitek with miasma, if it hasn’t already been." She hesitates. "I didn't know. Honest, I didn't – and I might've gone on not knowing, too, if it weren't for Ravus."

"What do you mean?" Hemera signs.

"He's the Oracle's kid," Aranea replies. "Bit of a dumb kid, yeah, but he's, what, sixteen, seventeen? All boys are dumb at that age. But he saw – I don't know what exactly he saw, he didn't tell me, but he recognized it. Starscourge. And I thought – why would the empire have Starscourge victims in their laboratories? They working on a cure or something? 'cause everyone knows the Oracle's the only cure for that, but the Oracle doesn't much like Niflheim nowadays. Anyway, I got curious, went around, and that's when I found that Starscourge isn't the only thing they've got in their basement. That's when I found the daemons."

"Shit," Nyx says, clearly thinking of the briefing about how magitek works that Cor ensured they all got before they came. The idea of any further technological development along those lines... "That's – _shit_."

"No kidding. So, Kingsglaive – we got a deal? I tell you where to find Ravus, you put in a good word for me with your bosses when you call for backup?"

Cor decides that now is the time to break his silence. He's learned all he can from observation alone – Aranea's smart and generally inclined to be loyal, or as loyal as a mercenary can be, but her head is filled with horror right now, and that's _without_ the knowledge that they already have about how magitek infantry is formed in the first place. She's lost faith in Niflheim, fears it, and while she has her pride, Cor's pretty sure that her desire to escape with her people is sufficient to ensure she's willing to go through whatever hoops she might need to jump to work in Lucis.

"No," he says.

" _No_?" she demands, fur puffing up for the first time. "Did you even _hear_ –"

He holds up a hand for silence. "No, because we're not a scouting mission," he says. "We're a _rescue_ mission. You'll get admittance to Lucis, you and all your people, with at least a pro tempore pardon that will keep you all safe while your request to join our armed forces is being considered – and the option to leave safely if it isn't granted to your satisfaction – but in return we need more than instructions. We need a guide to take us to Ravus, and we want your division to help us cover our retreat."

"A rescue mission," Aranea says flatly, aiming for sarcasm but her eyes are a little wide with hope. "What – just the three of you and a kid? You've got to be fucking kidding me. And anyway, who exactly do you think you are, that you've got the authority to make those kinds of promises?"

Cor straightens his back, squares his shoulders into the far more comfortable military posture he's more familiar with, and removes his glasses. 

Aranea's eyes abruptly bulge out as she suddenly recognizes him.

"I'm the Marshal of the Crownsguard," Cor says. "And your new boss, if you're actually interested in joining Lucis' army. Does that mean you're in?"


	23. 23

So, it turns out their prince is in another castle. 

Prompto snorts a little, but he doesn't share the joke – all the adults look very grim and unhappy, but maybe that's just because they're all squished together in a very small airship.

"Sorry, folks," the badger 'taur driving the ship, whose name is Biggs (or was it Wedge?), says for the fourth time. "If we'd'a known that we'd need to take guests all secret-like, we'd've booked a bigger plane for a maintenance flight, but..."

"It's fine," Nyx says, but his voice is a bit strained. Hemera is sitting on him; it was the only way to fit them all in. Prompto's sitting on Cor's back as well, but he's small and light in comparison. 

"Is it much further?"

"Not to worry, guv," the other 'taur, a weasel named Wedge (or is it Biggs?), says. "It's not much more."

"You said that twenty minutes ago."

"It's still not much more," Wedge says. "In comparison with most flights –"

Hemera bangs her head down on Nyx's shoulder. 

Aranea, who is sitting in the captain's seat, snickers. "Stop whining," she says. "It's _much_ worse on the bigger ships – they stuff even more people into even smaller spaces. Just imagine shoving your hindquarters into a _tube_ –"

"Please stop describing it," Nyx says. 

Prompto giggles.

"See, the kid's cool," Aranea says. 

Prompto beams at her. Maybe she's not as mean as she originally tried to come off as. Most people aren't, really. 

"Now, you listen to me –" Nyx starts to say, scowling.

"Yeah, Kingsglaive?" Aranea interrupts to ask, leaning forward with a smirk. "You got something to say?"

"You _bet_ I –"

"We're here!" Biggs the badger announces. 

"Thank the Six," Hemera signs. "Me and Nyx, we're still close, but maybe not _this_ close."

"Pity," Aranea murmurs.

For some reason, both Hemera and Nyx turn red.

"Let's go, Prompto," Cor says. "There's some questions I'd rather you not start asking yet."

Prompto frowns. "What type of questions?"

"Why don't you ask Commodore Highwind?" Cor asks. He has that voice he gets when he's finding something funny but has no intention of sharing the joke.

Prompto turns to Aranea, who for some reason has _also_ turned red now, and asks, "Commodore Highwind, what type of –"

"I have no idea what he means," she says very quickly, which means she probably does know but doesn’t want to share. "And I've already told you, call me Aranea. Now let's go – we need to find Ravus, and quickly. Biggs and Wedge will only be able to stay for an hour or so, and if we can time our departure for the same moment, it'll cover our tracks."

"We're not flying out?" Hemera asks.

"No space, for one thing," Wedge the weasel says. "And they check the airships, you know – we'd never be able to outrun them in an old creaker like this –"

"If we leave at the same time, they'll assume Ravus is on the airship and go the wrong way to start with, thereby giving us more of a head start," Cor says. "I understand. We'll try to keep this quick."

Aranea gives him an impressed look.

Prompto is very familiar with that type of impressed look being aimed at Cor. 

He sighs a little and hopes for Cor's sake that she's going to be one of the ones that is just too overwhelmed or intimidated to do anything about her crush, but he suspects Cor's not going to be that lucky. He rarely is. 

They land somewhere up the big mountain. The snow is everywhere, very thick and packed down, and it makes everything very quiet. There's a big building built into the mountain itself – at first Prompto thinks it's very small, just a shack, but then they open the door to the shack and it's just stairs leading down into a larger complex.

"Prince Ravus is here?" Nyx asks, sounding skeptical. "Why?"

"Because it's secure," Aranea says. "And because he started protesting after he saw some of the laboratories in the Floating Palace. They got annoyed, I think, and decided to send him here – this is the main experimental laboratory. Verstael Besithia’s little home away from home."

"Is Besithia likely to be here?"

"Unfortunately for us," Aranea says, "he's here whenever he's not at court. But we can try to avoid him if we move _quietly_."

Prompto knows a hint when he hears one.

They move quietly. 

There's a lot of laboratory equipment everywhere, but almost no people, and once they put on these big sweeping white cloaks, long protective booties (there's even one for your tail!) and face-masks, no one so much as looks at them because everyone looks more or less the same, no matter what their hindquarters are.

If it wasn't so creepy, Prompto would think that this would make a marvelous guess-who-I-am masquerade at school back home.

Prompto wishes he could get a look at the equipment - maybe take a picture? He's learning photography in art class and he really likes it – but Cor made him walk in the middle of the group, surrounded by adults, and he can barely see anything.

"In here," Aranea says, and leads them through a door.

Prompto crouches down low to try to catch a peep of Prince Ravus. He's seen pictures of him on Luna's wall or during her weekly calls home, of course – tall and gangly and silver-haired, with the hindquarters of an elk like his mother and a scattering of acne just starting to fade on his face. In the pictures or the call screen, though, he usually looks angry or arrogant or condescending about something; he doesn't look like that now. 

He looks upset. Maybe even scared.

Prompto feels a sudden stab of sympathy for him. He'd be scared if he didn't have Cor with him to take care of him, and sure, maybe Ravus was rude and sometimes made Luna cry, maybe he'd been really dumb and gone along with Niflheim for a bit for some reason, but he's only a few years older than Luna, just a kid, and he's scared of something and all alone.

"Prince Ravus," Cor says. 

Ravus turns to them, his hindquarters all bunched up with stress. "The Immortal," he says, sounding bleak. "I'm surprised that King Regis could spare you."

"Your mother asked," Cor says, his voice dry. "For some reason, she rather wants you back."

For some reason, that breaks Ravus completely. He puts his head into his hands and all four legs sag with tiredness. "My mother –" he chokes. "Oh, _mother_ – what would she think of me now –"

"What happened?" Aranea says sharply. "You weren't this bad off when I left –"

"They told me they would let me save them," he says mutely. He's not even looking at Aranea, and Prompto's pretty sure he's not answering her questions. "Save mother, save Luna – there was no way to win, of course, it was nothing but destruction ahead – it was inevitable – but I could save _them_ , at least; they would give me the power to do that – they _lied_ –"

"Niflheim does that," Nyx says. His voice is cold. "Funny how it's a bad idea to trust the people destroying your country."

"You don't understand," Ravus says, looking not at him, but at Cor. "I thought – King Regis took my sister. She was only _ten_ , and he wanted to _use_ her –"

"To _save the world_ ," Nyx snaps, taking a step forward, only for Hemera to put a paw on his, remind him not to do anything rash. Even Prompto’s not too young to realize that Nyx isn’t really angry at Ravus, but that he’s just angry at anything that reminds him of Drautos. 

"I thought I could save her," Ravus says. "I thought I could play Niflheim's game and take their power and use it to bring Luna home. King Regis filled my mother's head with stupid stories, with lies, so that she wouldn’t use her own power to bring Luna back and I thought, why not get my own power and do it myself? But Niflheim's worse – so much worse than I ever thought –"

"What's happened?" Cor asks, glancing at Aranea. "What did they do?"

Ravus clutches at his shoulder. "They – the magitek – I asked too many questions when I found the sick ‘taurs in their laboratories – they brought me here and took me around, they showed me it, all of it – and when I told them how monstrous it was, when I told them I wouldn't stand for it – then – then – they _injected_ me –"

"They _what_?!" Aranea exclaims, her face going white. Nyx and Hemera both take a step back, almost automatically, their eyes going wide.

Prompto frowns. He's not sure what they're talking about.

"I can't leave," Ravus whispers. "They gave it to me, what they give to their soldiers; I can't leave, I can't go home – I can _never_ go home – you don't understand: it's a new strain. They’re the only ones who can slow the process, not even Mother’s healing can affect it –"

Prompto reaches out and tugs on Cor's hand. "What's going on?"

Cor looks at him sharply. "Nyx, Hemera, take Prompto out of here. I need to question Ravus about what happened, about what he's seen, and I don't want Prompto hearing."

"But –" Prompto starts. He doesn't think that's very fair.

"We'll do it," Hemera signs, and grabs Prompto's hand. Between her and Nyx, they usher Prompto out of the room so efficiently that he doesn't even get another word out. 

"It's not fair," Prompto grumbles. "Isn't it safer for me to be in there with everyone else rather than out here?"

"We'll protect you," Hemera signs. She looks like she’s feeling sick for some reason. "Better that you not be in there."

"But –"

"Why don't we explore a bit?" Nyx says quickly. "Maybe we'll find something interesting and important. We _are_ at a top-secret Niff lab, after all; it'd only make sense for us to find something cool and possibly even very dangerous."

That cheers Prompto up a bit.

Unfortunately, the majority of the laboratory is deserted and actually really boring – lots of machines with flickering lights and some computers that they can't access and various weird pieces of equipment.

Other than the bleeps and bloops of the machines, there isn't even any sound. It's all muffled by the mountain and the snow.

Except –

“What’s that?” Prompto asks, trotting forward. “It sounds like howling.”

“Probably the wind,” Nyx says. “Don’t go so far ahead, Prompto –”

Feeling contrary, Prompto speeds up abruptly. He’s not much of a sprinter – not much of a runner at all, really, even though he's finally started shedding the last of his puppy fat – but Nyx and Hemera aren’t really expecting it and he manages to get pretty far down the hallway before they realize they should be chasing him.

There’s a door there with no window, made of steel and all marked up in red lights and warning labels, and there’s a little scanner on the side.

The scanner looks an awful lot like the one from the ship Cor flew them home on during the Archead. 

“It’s locked, Prompto,” Nyx says, catching up quickly. “We can’t get –”

His voice trails off when Prompto puts his wrist by the scanner and the entire door starts going from red to green.

“Skeleton key,” Prompto says with satisfaction, glancing back at the Ulric twins to bask in their dumbfounded expressions. “I was born in Niflheim, didn’t you know? When I was a kitling. And they gave me this wrist tattoo and it’s real cool ‘cause it means I can get through all of their security –”

Hemera catches his hand and looks at it. 

“Nyx,” she signs. “This is a barcode. Like –”

She stops.

“Yeah, must be,” Nyx says grimly. “Fuck, I wish I never got that Niflheim briefing.”

Ugh, Prompto _hates_ it when they go all twin-talk like this. 

He does take advantage of their distraction to pull open the door and dart inside, where he finds the source of the howling.

“Uh,” he says, staring blankly all around him. It’s a giant room, absolutely giant, and one wall is a big old metal construct, something like an MT's armor but much more massive, taking up the whole wall, and the other wall is absolutely filled with puppies, canidaetaur kids like him, ranging from tiny kitlings to kids a year or two older than him. Except, unlike him, they’re all in tiny little cages, barely big enough for them to do a full turn around in, and each one of them has a tube attached to them – something like an IV. And they’re all staring right back at him, their howling stopped cold. “Hi?”

They just stare.

Nyx and Hemera come in after him. 

Hemera’s hands jump up to cover her mouth.

“What the fuck,” Nyx says. “Ifrit’s flaming hooves, what the _fuck_.”

The puppies don’t look at them, though. They’re still looking at Prompto.

Prompto tries on a smile. His teacher at school says you can never go wrong with a nice smile. 

“My name’s Prompto,” he says. “How about you?”

* * *

“So we, uh, might have a problem,” Nyx says. “With leaving.”

“You were gone for _fifteen minutes_ , hero,” Aranea says, scowling at him, even as Ravus starts to look terrified. “How did you screw this up already? Did someone see you?”

“No alarms went off,” Cor points out, calm and in control as always, which Nyx _really_ appreciates right now. “Ulric First, report. What’s the problem?”

“We found the kitlings,” Nyx says. “The, uh…current batch.”

Cor’s face goes hard. 

Nyx isn’t really surprised. The briefing they got before they came to Niflheim had lots of top-secret information in it, and part of it involved what’d been recovered on prior missions regarding kitlings and MTs – real nightmare fuel – and based on Prompto having that barcode on his wrist and Cor’s extremely famous multi-year battle to legally adopt him, Nyx is willing to bet that the person who originally located the information (and Prompto) was Cor. 

He’s also willing to bet that the infamously increasingly-difficult-to-draw-out-but-if-you-do-it’s-time-to-run-away-screaming temper of the Marshal of the Crownsguard is about to make an appearance over it.

“There’s a lot of them,” he adds, resisting the urge to wring his hands. “Like – a _lot_. Dozens and dozens and dozens –”

“Hold up,” Aranea says, looking between them. “What’s this about kitlings? What does ‘current batch’ mean?”

“We just had a discussion about how the Empire uses people infected with Starscourge to create their magitek infantry,” Cor says flatly. “Put the rest together yourself.”

Aranea looks sick, which raises Nyx’s opinion of her. She plays it tough, but she cares. 

“So, the plan…?”

“Show me the kids,” Cor instructs. 

Nyx is _so_ happy that he has his boss along. He’s sure that one day he’ll be in charge of his own squadron, and when that day comes he’ll have to make the hard calls himself – calls like deciding how much risk they’re willing to take to potentially imperil their “rescue Ravus” primary mission if they try to free the kids as a secondary mission, and he doesn’t know how he’d make that choice or what he’d choose – but thank the Six today is not that day.

He takes Cor and the others to the room with the kids. Hemera and Prompto are already busily opening the cages and detatching the kids from the IVs – honestly, it hadn’t even occurred to any of them to go get Cor until they’d already started, and by that point they had to keep going – and the newly freed kitlings (puppies all) are wandering around the room on shaky legs, like they're puppies far younger than they are. They’re smiling and yipping and wagging their tails like just being out of the cages is a brand new experience for them.

Nyx’s heart hurts. 

There’s _got_ to be a way to save them.

Nyx looks at Cor to try to gauge his reaction. 

But Cor isn’t looking at the kids. He’s looking at the other wall. 

“What is it?” Nyx asks, glancing at it. It’s scaled, almost armor-like – similar to an MT’s hindquarters, really. He hasn’t been paying much attention to it; the kids have been rather distracting. 

“Trouble,” Cor says grimly.

“It’s MT armor,” Aranea says, frowning at it. “Why is it on a wall?”

“Because it’s not a wall,” Cor says. “It’s a tunnel.”

They all turn to look at him, all the adults, even Hemera who’s been keeping an eye on them even while she opens cages. Prompto, luckily, is focused on running down the hallway, opening as many cages as he can.

Cor only has eyes for the wall. Tunnel?

“I don’t understand,” Nyx says. Everyone else looks relieved that he said it first. “What do you mean?”

“All these puppies,” Cor says. “They’re not here for the MT process. This is an _experimental_ laboratory; they already have the regular process down pat.” He nods at the wall. “They’re here to power this.”

“To – power it?” Nyx says. He has a sinking feeling in his stomach. 

“Project Immortalis,” Ravus croaks. His face is white. “Verstael Besithia – he was talking about something called Immortalis. A suitably glorious form to carry the soul of a ‘taur into a higher plane of existence...his next step towards divinity, he called it…”

“He’s planning on putting _himself_ through the MT process?” Hemera signs, coming over to them. Her eyes are wide. “ _Why_?”

“He thinks MTs are superior to regular ‘taurs,” Ravus says in response, much to Nyx’s surprise; he hadn’t realized the spoiled princeling knew LSL. “He’s – if he’s not mad yet, then he will be. This is just the beginning. He says it’ll take at least a year to fully complete, says that if only he’d gotten the idea earlier, he would’ve been further along in the process – he says that someone, he calls him ‘that bastard’ without any details, he says that that someone didn’t share the idea with him until recently, and he’s been working on building it ever since.”

“He’s feeding it,” Cor says. “He’s building some massive creature, scale by armored scale, and underneath all that armor is flesh, just the way it is for the MTs.” 

And the source of that flesh...

Cor nods purposefully at the children, still wandering around. Some of them are touching the walls with looks of amazement. Others are touching each other, cooing wordlessly as their fingers touch the fur of a stranger for what might be the first time in their little lives.

It’s horrifying. Even _before_ thinking about how twisted the mind would have to be that looks upon these puppies and thinks of them as nothing more than fuel for a machine...

"We have to get them out of here," Nyx bursts out. "We _have_ to."

"There's no _room_ , though," Aranea says, but her eyes are on the puppies and she's twisting her hands anxiously around her lance in a clearly unconscious tic. She's trying to be tough, to be practical, but she doesn't want to leave the puppies any more than Nyx does. "Biggs and Wedge – the whole plan relies on them falling under suspicion, but the ship is too small for anyone to believe we've put them all on it –"

"Are there any air movements scheduled for the Niflheim air forces right now?" Cor asks her. "How long would it take them to realize that a mobilization isn't authorized and catch up?"

Cor has a plan. Thank the Six. 

"What are you thinking?" Aranea asks. 

"I'm thinking that this facility is pretty far out there from Gralea, and in the general direction of Lucis," Cor says. "If you go back with Biggs and Wedge, how long would it take you to order your fleet into the air to come here on a bombing run, and to just keep going towards Lucis?"

"But –" she starts, then stops. Her eyes are still on the puppies. "I can be back in two hours. Three, max. But what about the puppies? They can't here when we bomb the place, and they won't fit in the ship."

"They won't be here," Cor says. "Ulrics, you'll be taking the puppies – including Prompto – and going cross-country."

"To _Lucis_?" Hemera and Nyx chorus, her hands moving in perfect time with his voice. "But – that's _days_ – they're _puppies_ – the _mountains_ –"

"Not to Lucis. To Gralea."

"To _Gralea_ –"

"The 'taurs hiding in the houses will take them," Cor says. "They'll make sure all these puppies disappear into the one place they won't be looked for, hidden among all the other Niflheim puppies already out there. And we'll tell them all that if they can make it to Lucis, they'd be welcome."

"But –"

"There's nowhere else we can take them, and we're not leaving them here," Cor says. His tone brooks no disagreement. "It will already take you most of a day to get to Gralea, given how the puppies can scarcely walk as it is – you'll need to take sleds, and go slow – and it's the only alternative."

"Won't they see us?" Nyx asks. "The scientists here? They could alert the Hanging Gardens -"

"We'll cut off communications first," Cor says. "I'll go do that myself. Given what I know of the 'taur, I suspect Besithia – who is here, I saw a shadow of him earlier – will send his forces to detain me, if I’m available, rather than prioritizing alerting the main force at the Palace. By the time he thinks to do it, the communications system will be down, and then Aranea's bombing run will destroy the remaining evidence that the puppies weren’t here when the bombing took place."

"Wait!" Aranea exclaims. "If you're _here_ , and the Kingsglaive twins are with the puppies, who's going to vouch for my people in Lucis? We won't have time to change the paint from Niflheim colors if we're running."

"You'll be escorting Prince Ravus," Cor tells her. 

"To _Lucis_?" Ravus says sharply. "Didn't you hear me – I've been _infected_ –"

"Your sister and your mother both specialize in healing Starscourge, for one thing," Cor points out. "Niflheim might have told you that the Oracle's healing will not be able to stop your strain of the Scourge, but remember: Niflheim lies. For another thing, we’re going to destroy this facility, so you can’t just stay here; you have to go _somewhere_. Unfortunately for you, Tenebrae is occupied by Niflheim: if you go there, as they expect you to, they will simply take you into custody again. Thanks to your own actions, Lucis is your only option."

Chastened, Ravus drops his eyes and nods. 

"How will you distract Besithia for so long?" Hemera asks. 

Cor glances at the wall of armor. "I'm going to draw him off to chase me, and when I have his attention, I'll attack Immortalis. He'll set everything he can on me to prevent that. But first things first. Aranea, take Ravus and go now. Hemera, go quickly to scout the rest of the facility and see if there are any other kids; Nyx, you start getting everyone here into winter clothing so they'll be able to manage the journey to Gralea. I'll get the communications systems down."

They all split off. 

It takes Prompto – who by this point has transitioned to showing the other puppies things on his phone, which somehow still works thanks to the wonders of Niflheim wireless technology – a minute to notice that Cor is missing. 

"Nyx?" he asks.

"Time to put on cold weather gear," Nyx says brightly. "Come on, everyone - Prompto, you can be my helper, help me get them all dressed."

Unfortunately, cold weather gear in the size that would fit the kids is not exactly easy. There didn't seem to be any conception that they would ever need to go out for any reason.

Nyx tries not to think about the usual necessity of fire drills, or exactly how young the children are, or whether they've ever seen the outdoors at all. 

Seriously, _fuck Niflheim_. Its insane leadership, at the very least.

(He still can't believe so many Kingsglaive actually fell for all that _bullshit_...now is not the time to think about that. That's what his Crown-mandated therapy sessions are for.)

Nyx ends up wrapping the kitlings in pieces of the white laboratory coats from the stash they found earlier, tearing them apart to get enough of them, and he drapes the older puppies in the rest of the coats, tying the overly large booties onto their paws with torn-up strips. 

Most of the puppies seem positively delighted with this treatment, shyly lining up to stick their paws forward to him. They talk to Prompto, so they clearly can talk – albeit not much, well below their age levels, and Nyx highly doubts they can read - but they're far too shy to say anything to Nyx.

At least at first.

"What about Barbarus? Is he coming?" one of the oldest of them finally asks, ducking their head a bit in fear almost immediately.

"Barbarus?" Nyx asks. "No – don't worry – it's okay. It's fine. You were right to ask. Questions are totally okay. Please stop flinching and trying to hide behind each other. And, uh, please tell me who Barbarus is."

"He's Besithia's monkey."

Nyx hesitates. He has the feeling he doesn't want to know.

"Do – do you _want_ him to come with us?" he asks hesitantly.

Virtually every head in the group immediately shakes in a very clear negative. 

"He's mean," one of them whispers. Many others nod.

"Well, then he doesn't have to come, does he?" Nyx tries, aiming for a tone that will inspire confidence. "We don't have to even let him know what's happening."

They all start talking at once.

It takes a minute or two for Nyx to decipher what they're saying, which is that, apparently, disobedient children are put in cages in Barbarus' room for him to torment, and there are a few still in there now. 

Fuck. Niflheim. 

Hemera comes back just around then, confirming that she only saw one other room with kids – they were in the center of the room, and it looked suspicious to her, so she came back to check with him first. The kids all agree that it was Barbarus' room that she saw. 

"Okay," she says. "If it's just a monkey, I'll go get them. Stay here."

Nyx nods.

The kids, who don't speak LSL, panic when she makes to leave the room again. They correctly guess that she's going back, but they're all terrified of Barbarus and they don't want to have to go back to the cages if they don't have to – Prompto's already made promises about their future freedom that Nyx couldn't entirely help himself in confirming – and they swarm her, clinging on her to try to keep her back.

She looks at Nyx helplessly.

"Listen," he says hastily. "How about this: we'll all go, okay? No one will need to stay here alone. And when we get there, you all wait in the corridor while Hemera and I go in. We'll _both_ take care of Barbarus, quick and easy, no problem, and we'll get the other kids out of there and we'll leave this whole place behind right after that, okay?"

"You had to say 'quick and easy'," Hemera signs at him, scowling. "Now it's going to be a nightmare."

It kind of is a nightmare.

Somehow, the phrase 'monkey' conveyed a mental image of something small. Something spider-monkey-sized. About the size of a baby coeurl, maybe.

Barbarus is _not_ the size of a baby coeurl.

He is also not a monkey.

He's an ape. 

A giant fifteen-foot-tall _mechanically enhanced_ ape, to be specific.

It leaps, screaming, straight at Nyx's face when he walks in, and it's really just the fact that Nyx is _so_ used to warping instead of parrying that saves him from being a monkey-squashed pancake instead of a 'taur.

Hemera doesn't wait after seeing that: she runs in right after Nyx and blasts it with lightning. 

That only stuns it, though, because _apparently_ its mechanical parts are self-repairing like the MTs.

Fucking Astrals above and below, _who would build this thing_?!

Between Nyx and Hemera alternating warping in for stabs and hitting him from a distance with fireballs and lightning and the rocket launchers that are literally just sitting in crates around the room, they wear it down, and then Nyx sees that one of the walls is loose so he lures it over and pulls the wall right down on top of Barbarus. That finishes it.

Thank the Six.

"That was not subtle," Hemera signs with a sigh, going to collect the children trapped in the cages inside the room – most of them near catatonic with terror and barely stirring now, which Nyx can’t blame them for at all. "Very, very not subtle."

"Hopefully Cor got the communications down first," Nyx agrees, shaking his head. He cannot believe that he just fought a half-mechanical monkey.

Then he opens the door again and the hallway is filled with a few dozen eyes looking adoringly at him, which is a pretty far cry from how they were trying sneakily get as far away from him as possible earlier.

“Uh, hi?” he says. “So...uh...looks like Barbarus isn’t a problem anymore?”

“I _told_ you he could do it,” Prompto says, sounding smug. 

“Maybe he _can_ make it through the monster in the snow,” one of them whispers, marvelling. 

Nyx’s eyebrows go straight up.

“Of course he can,” Prompto brags. “He and Hemera can do anything, just like Cor can.”

“Hold up, hold up, _hold up_ a second here,” Nyx says. “ _What_ monster in the snow?”

* * *

Prompto gives his nice warm hat to one of the kitlings – the poor thing doesn’t even have _fur_ , which the other children assure him is actually quite normal for his breed (called a ‘Xoloitzcuintli’ or something) and doesn’t represent, like, the mange or anything – and shows a bunch of the others how to put on mittens even if they have to pull them all the way down to their forearms because they're too big for them. 

Luckily, Prompto found some rubber bands. 

He also helps explain the concept of sledding to make the others a lot less afraid of climbing into the big crates that Nyx and Hemera strap onto sleds and attach to the back of a pair of snowmobiles. 

Honestly, Prompto is being _extremely_ helpful. He’s very proud of himself. _And_ he has all of these cool new friends! Even if they don’t really have proper names, which is a bit annoying. 

Nyx is still grumbling about not knowing what the monster in the snow is other than something big and white and it eats you if you go out into the snow without permission, the way Prompto’s new friends have explained. Hemera, meanwhile, has been making jokes about the Abominable Snow Monster from an apparently very old game called SkiFree ever since it got mentioned. 

Prompto’s not worried. Nyx and Hemera might not be as cool as Cor, but they’re still pretty cool. Look how quickly they took care of that monkey that everyone was afraid of!

This snow monster’s going to be no problem.

“All right,” Nyx says. “I think we’ve gotten everyone secured, and Hemera just ran another perimeter check and brought back the last few kitlings –”

They were in the labs, apparently. Hemera was scowling when she came back with them, but Prompto’s glad that they haven’t missed anyone. Actually, Hemera was even able to find a list of “all current specimens” to confirm that no one was missing, which she said one of the lab techs had helped her get. She signed that with a nasty looking smile on her face – Prompto was a bit worried that the lab tech would tell on them, but Hemera assured him that the lab tech wouldn’t cause any communications problems or anything, smirking the whole time. 

Honestly, she could’ve just _said_ that she killed him. Prompto’s been playing M rated games for _years_ now; he’s not a baby anymore. 

Well, that, and Cor doesn’t really think that violence is something that kids shouldn’t see so he doesn’t care what type of video games Prompto and Noctis bring home to play as long as the sexual content is minimal. Prompto agrees: he has zero interest in mating. Ick!

“– so we’re good to go,” Nyx concludes. “Prompto, turn off your phone, we don’t want anyone tracking us that way, just in case.”

It takes Prompto a few minutes to find who currently has his phone – he’s letting the other children play games on it, which is very generous and mature of him – and turn it off. 

“Ready to go now,” he chirps. “Everyone who’s ready, say ‘ready’!”

“Ready,” all the other children chorus.

“Anyone who’s not ready, say ‘not ready’!”

Silence.

“We’re good to go,” Prompto reports to Nyx, feeling very important. 

Nyx is smiling like he can't quite help himself. “Thanks, Prom,” he says. “You're a great helper. All right, everyone, duck down so that the snow doesn’t splash in your faces or knock you out of the crates.”

He puts on his helmet, Hemera does the same, they get on the snowmobiles and that's it: they’re off.

It’s a lot of fun being dragged behind a snowmobile. All the other children think so, too, giggling and shrieking and trying to touch the snow that gets kicked up all around them, or at least they do once Prompto’s explained _again_ to the particularly young ones who've never seen snow that the white stuff is just cold, it’s not dangerous or anything. 

They’re about thirty minutes out – they can still see the laboratory behind them because the day is so clear – when the loud rumbling starts.

“It’s him,” one of the older children gasps, pulling the blankets they’ve put into the crates up to his chin. “It’s the _monster in the snow_.”

Half the group in Prompto’s crate duck under the blankets at once.

“I don’t see any monster –” Prompto starts.

There’s a gigantic roar, and then he _does_ see it. 

“It’s a _snow behemoth_!” he yells, his eyes gone wide. Cor’s hunted behemoths before, when they became a problem, so Prompto's seen some pictures (including a few hilarious selfies he convinced Cor to take for him) but this one’s different: it's bigger, for one thing, being particularly gigantic, and unlike the others it's all white all over. It’s got a massive pair of front horns and a particularly knotty-looking spine-tipped tail, its four giant paws are all tipped with big nasty-looking claws, and it has even bigger teeth in its jaw. It’s also got giant spikes coming out of its hip and elbow joints, plus spine-tipped wings stretching out above its form. 

Prompto’s heard that some people claim that behemoths are named after Bahamut for how hard their armored skin is to get through, and that they call behemoths the King of the Beasts because of that. 

For the first time, seeing the creature the size of a double-decker bus barreling towards them, screaming in rage, Prompto agrees. 

“Go faster!” Nyx shouts to Hemera, and the snowmobiles start going faster, but the behemoth is chasing behind them, bellowing in rage and sometimes spitting out bursts of icy snow that only miss them thanks to Nyx and Hemera’s evasive driving. 

It’s gaining on them.

Prompto gulps and clings onto the side of the crate, watching the creature come up behind them. 

He wishes he had a gun he could try to shoot it with, though he doesn’t know if that would have much of an impact. He still wishes he had one.

He wishes Cor was here.

He wishes –

There’s another rumbling noise. 

At first Prompto thinks it’s the behemoth, but no – the rumbling is larger, deeper, and it seems like it’s coming from everywhere at once. 

It’s the _ground_ rumbling.

He turns back to the behemoth, deeply alarmed – can behemoths cause earthquakes? He didn’t know that! – except the behemoth’s eyes have suddenly gone wide, like _it_ doesn’t know what’s going on _either_ , and then suddenly the earth right beneath the behemoth’s paws cracks.

And then the ground _explodes_ , sending the behemoth tumbling head-over-hindquarters in their direction, a giant wave of snow sweeping forward and catching them in it, crate and snowmobile and everything until they’re no longer driving forward, just coasting along the wave of snow, and looking back Prompto can see that from the ground a gigantic metal _snake_ has appeared.

“It’s Immortalis!” one of the other kids shouts.

And when Prompto’s finally got the snow out of his eyes again, he looks and he guesses it must be. The wall of metal armor – it was just one side of a snake, or something that was _going_ to be a snake, he supposes, sometime down the line. It’s incredibly large, impossibly large – it’s at least the height of a house, maybe an apartment building, and it’s got to be at least a sports field or two in length. It’s clearly meant to be something like a half-mile long, when it’s complete.

But it’s _not_ complete. 

It’s only half-built – large segments of it are filled with armor and metal, but other portions are just bare steel skeleton, like something has rotted out large portions of it, all except the frame like some sort of mechanical zombie. There are more skeletal sections as it continues, until it cuts off like the back end hasn’t even been finished yet – suggesting an even larger size was originally anticipated – but the sections around the head are more complete. The head isn’t even really a head, either: instead of a snake head it has something like seven giant antenna-like nodes, all filled with whirling drills going in circles like saws, glowing red at the center, and in the very center of those nodes there is a cage with a ‘taur perched inside: Prompto can just about see from this distance that it’s a white-haired greyhound of some sort, wearing white.

He pokes at one of the few other ‘taur children still sitting up in the crate. “Who’s the greyhound in the middle of the face?”

“That’s Besithia,” the other puppy replies. “He must be driving Immortalis. Who’s the ‘taur on top?”

“On top?” Prompto asks, and turns to look again.

There _is_ a ‘taur on top of the gigantic mechanical monster, crouching down low to avoid the wind pressure, his sword buried into the flesh, basically riding the creature out of its hole as his spots flash in the bright light of the snow-reflected sun. 

A very familiar set of spots.

“That’s _Cor_!” Prompto shouts, pointing. “Look! It’s Cor!”

“Bahamut’s scales,” he hears Nyx say from behind him. “The Marshal’s _insane_. What the fuck is he _doing_?”

A pause, then, “Yes, Hemera, I know he’s fighting it. Should – should we go help or something?”

“You can do it, Cor!” Prompto hollers in Cor’s direction, watching his Cor – _his Cor_ , because he’s got the _best_ dad of all of the possible dads – leaping through the skeletal sections of Immortalis, cutting through various parts of the system even as the snake writhes and tries to shoot laser beams at him but mostly ends up hitting itself.

There’s a grumble of sound to Prompto’s right.

He glances over, then does a double-take.

It’s the behemoth. 

It’s come to a stop right next to them – none of them are moving anymore, they’re all stuck in the giant snowdrift that came from Immortalis’ escape from under the earth – and it’s staring back at Immortalis with big, wide confused eyes.

It’s clearly never had to deal with something so much larger than it before. 

It glances over at them.

Prompto meets its eyes.

“Yeah,” he says, nodding and gesturing at Immortalis. “What the fuck, am I right?”

“Prompto!” Nyx says, a second delayed so Prompto knows he’s probably just calling out on Hemera’s behalf. “Watch your language!” 

“You were _literally_ just saying stuff like that!”

“I’m allowed! I’m an adult!”

“Just _barely_!” 

“Still counts!”

“Mmhmmmr?” the behemoth says. It’s sitting down now. 

It watches – they all watch – as Cor continues to leap through the giant metal skeleton. 

“Yeah,” Nyx says after a few seconds. “We’re going to go help. Prom – just – I don’t know – keep an eye out here? If the behemoth starts to do anything, scream.”

He and Hemera both throw their knives in the general direction of Immortalis, warping from throw to throw, until they’ve made it to where Cor is fighting.

Prompto can see him barking out orders to them, though he can’t hear it at this distance, and they immediately set out in different directions, all three of them. They’re crawling over it like little bugs as the giant snake lashes out, shaking its head and its body like it can throw them off of it.

“Are they going to win?” one of the other kids – they’ve all come out from under the blankets now to watch in amazement – asks. 

“Yes,” Prompto says firmly. “Definitely.”

The alternative isn’t worth thinking about, anyway. 

In fact, soon enough, some part of the tail where Nyx is starts exploding, and then the part on the other side where Hemera is, and then the next thing Prompto knows, there’s a growing sequence of explosions rippling through the entire frame, tearing it apart. 

Prompto can’t see Nyx anywhere in the smoke. Or Hemera. Or _Cor_...

Then, deep in the smoke and ash of the explosions, he sees the twinkle of warp-light.

He stands up on the very tips of his paw-pads. “C’mon,” he says, begging. “ _C’mon_ –”

He sees the warp-light again. And again. And –

“ _Yes_!” he howls, seeing Nyx and Hemera both, working in perfect tandem together the way only the twins or highly trained acrobats can, each of them grabbing onto Cor, one on each side of him, warping steadily in their direction as the snake slowly collapses in on itself. Prompto's tail is wagging like crazy, and that convinces the other children that it’s okay, that they’ve _won_ , that they can be happy, that they can be _free_ –

And then the explosions start from the other direction, too – well behind them, way back where the laboratory used to be. In the air above the laboratory, there's a whole squadron of airships, Aranea’s airships, and they’re doing a bombing run on the factory as they fly over the mountains in the direction of Lucis.

Prompto covers his ears, the other children mimicking his actions.

When the explosions finally stop, the last of the airships having gone past, Cor and Nyx and Hemera have made it back to them. 

Nyx and Hemera both drop down onto their bellies in the snow, panting and tails wagging like mad, and Cor is covered in smoke and oil and blood and tar and metal bits, but he’s still standing on all four paws, holding his sword, even if he is breathing a little hard, too.

Best. Dad. _Ever_.

“My Cor,” Prompto whispers to one of the other puppies. They look very impressed. They all look _very_ impressed. He’s been telling them all about Cor and how extremely amazing he is, but he gets the feeling that they didn’t entirely believe him until right about now.

Cor doesn’t look at Prompto, though. He looks instead at the behemoth. 

He raises his sword, arches an eyebrow, and asks, “Are we going to have a problem?”

The behemoth stares back.

And then, very slowly, it drops its head down to its forepaws, its tail up in the air, an obvious gesture of submission and surrender to what is clearly a higher power.

“Good,” Cor says.

The behemoth ends up dragging their sleds – the snowmobiles were totaled – all the rest of the way to Gralea, Cor and Nyx and Hemera all riding daintily on its back. 

Monica is there already, with the advance scout of the Crownsguard that were _supposed_ to be sneakily infiltrating Niflheim from the direction of Tenebrae, and she’s got a whole bunch of Gralean citizens with her that are looking in the direction of the puppies like they’re seeing something wonderful. 

“Hello, Monica,” Cor says. “I see you got my message.”

“Yeah,” she says dryly. “I got all of them, thanks, and I’ve passed them along to King Regis.”

“Good.”

“He says you’re not allowed to bring that thing home with you.”

“Awwwww,” Prompto whines. He’s moved up to the back of the behemoth (he’s named it Frosty the Abominable Snowman, which means that Hemera loves him forever and Nyx is already moaning in despair about the next generation) to sit with Cor, and he’s already constructed visions of having the world’s best show-and-tell session _ever_. “Are you sure?”

“I think the Graleans can use his help more than we can,” Cor says dryly. “But nice try.”

“Thank the Glacian,” Nyx says, hopping off and rubbing at his back. He was further back towards the behemoth’s wings, and Prompto gets the impression that he didn’t much enjoy riding. “Let’s go home already.”

“Well,” Cor says.

Prompto immediately brightens. He knows that ‘well’. 

“Well?” Hemera signs. She looks wary.

“I was thinking we’d make just one tiny little stop along the way back,” Cor says. “You see, I finally remembered where I’d heard of Succarpe before…”

Monica covers her face. “You just blew up a top secret fortress and killed one of the Emperor’s most trusted advisors,” she says through her hands. “You were already one of the most wanted targets in all of Niflheim, and now they probably want to kill you even _more_. Just _take the win_ and _go home_.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Cor says dismissively. “I blow up something every time I come to Niflheim. Our cover isn’t anywhere _near_ blown yet.”

“My dresses are,” Hemera signs, amused.

“You can pick up some more when we get to Tenebrae,” Cor tells her.

“Actually,” Monica says. “About that.”

“What?”

“Sylvia’s decided that if you’re taking both of her kids to Lucis, then she’s going to come along too.”

“She’s _what_?”

“Don’t worry,” Monica says sweetly. “I’m sure the Oracle will be _more_ than glad to make a pit stop in Succarpe on the way to finding her missing and now mortally ill son.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Someone very aptly pointed out that it's Sylva, not Sylvia, but I'm rather attached to her being Sylvia now, so I'm just...going to keep doing that. Please feel free to ignore the spelling change if you like!


	24. 24

“I can’t believe you _actually_ still made the detour to Succarpe,” Regis says, pinching the bridge of his nose. 

Clarus passes him a cup of tea and pats his shoulder. They’ve already had the welcome ceremony for the Oracle – there was no way they were keeping this one quiet, so they didn’t even bother to try – and Sylvia was very regal and accepting and retreated quickly to her rooms, pleading exhaustion, but more likely with the intention of speaking with Luna and Ravus as soon as possible.

In Clarus’ view, after the whole incident where an entirely airborne unit from Niflheim’s army showed up at the Wall, claiming to have defected, dealing with the Oracle and Cor is positively easy in comparison. 

Thank the Glacian for mobile phones, at least. If Highwind's unit’d showed up without Regis and Clarus having been informed of their impending arrival ahead of time, even Clarus isn’t sure about what would’ve happened. 

As it was, he’s _still_ not sure what to do with them, other than simply acknowledging that the Crownsguard now has a de-facto aviation branch that’s gotten quite a lot of people very excited, running the full gamut from children who now dream of taking to the air in Lucis’ defense to engineers who descended upon the repair workers of the crew with demands for technical specs and factory designs. On one hand, they need to vet them; on the other, everyone is _very_ excited...

For that matter, he's also not sure what to do with the visiting dignitary-slash-religious-figure that's staying – potentially indefinitely - at the Citadel. The diplomatic reaction from Tenebrae, not to mention Niflheim...!

_And unlike some people_ , Clarus thinks grumpily (and admittedly ungraciously) as he looks at the perfectly serene Cor, _I don’t have the fortune of being able to shrug and say ‘not my problem’._

"The detour to Succarpe was necessary," Cor says, adding in a belated "Your Majesty" the way he tends to when his heels are dug so far into the ground that he will hear no word against whatever it is that he did. "I obtained the Katana of the Warrior, which would have otherwise required a lengthy trip in its own right."

"You're telling me the Oracle didn't object to the diversion?" Regis asks, looking skeptical. 

"Oh, she objected all right," Cor says. "I shoved Prompto at her as a distraction, told her we were going to find something for him, and went anyway."

"You – of course you did." Regis sighs. Clarus shakes his head; _of course_ Cor did. "And then you fought a – what was it?"

"The taxonomists have called it a Marlboro," Cor says helpfully. "The Ulrics were very useful in defeating it, as was the Oracle –"

"I thought you left the Oracle with Prompto," Clarus interrupts.

"I did," Cor says. "Prompto informed her of our actual destination when she began to question how long the train was stalled, and she decided to give me a piece of her mind and followed us down the trail to do so. Of course, she got distracted when she saw the Marlboro attacking –"

"Giant tentacled plant monster," Regis says with a sigh. "Yes, I'd imagine that would be a touch distracting."

"She was very helpful in defeating it," Cor repeats. "And then the tomb was right there, so it was easy enough to pick up the Katana and usher her back to the train before she remembered to start yelling again. And she brought the Trident with her as well."

"She did? Of course, she would – wait, how many does of the Arms that get us to?" Regis asks, now thoroughly distracted from yelling himself. 

Clarus reflects to himself that Cor's gotten rather better at diplomacy over the last few years, or at least the forms of diplomacy involving avoiding other people getting too angry over his latest ridiculous stunt by cleverly applying the art of distraction. 

It won't work on Clarus, of course. He’s just choosing to save his yelling until they’re in private.

"All but one of the Royal Arms," Cor reports. "The only outstanding one is the Mace of the Fierce."

"Do we know where that one is?"

"Yes," Cor says, with a small sigh. "The Rock of Ravatogh."

"Ah. I see."

"Yes. We'll have to pick that up when we go there for the covenant with Ifrit," Clarus says. "Which, as we've discussed before, will require a serious frontal assault by the military. Niflheim's defenses around the volcano are considerable, and will only become more so."

"There's a chance that they might become distracted soon," Cor offers. "Hopefully requiring them to withdraw at least some of their troops from the Rock."

"Something you've omitted from your official report, Cor?" Regis asks, giving his Marshal a sharp look.

"Not at all," Cor says. "Just a hypothesis."

"Do share," Clarus says dryly. 

"The people of Gralea have taken in the MT children," Cor says with a shrug. "Some of them have left Gralea to visit relatives further out in Niflheim so as better to avoid notice. Either way, word will spread."

"Of how the MT program works?"

"And how they treat children that look exactly like their own," Cor says dryly. "Even if they had some idea of the MT process, which I doubt, the subjects of Niflheim put a lot of stock in their emperor being good and just, and this evidence will suggest to them that he is being corrupted – presumably from the outside. The usual blame-the-evil-minister business."

Clarus thinks wryly to himself that Cor is far too familiar with such accusations – for all of his popularity in Lucis, he has definitely faced more than his fair share of accusations of undue influence, especially when Drautos was quietly fomenting unrest among the populace – but that, indeed, he's finally learned diplomacy.

"You're trying to get them to depose Chancellor Izunia," he says, more than a little impressed. 

"They won't launch a palace revolt against _Aldercapt_ , that's for sure," Cor replies with a shrug. "The Emperor is old, and he's been moderate enough over the years, treating them well enough when it comes to taxes and whatnot. The first stab at his popularity came when the Glacian attacked, but he handled the aftermath well – more leniency, more Niflheim-centric parades and education. The reduction of the draft was also particularly popular."

"The MTs," Clarus agrees. "They went from a supplement to the main force of the army after that point, allowing the army regulars to become officers or to lead supplementary forces only. All our attempts to show them how exactly that miraculous cut in the draft was accomplished have been ignored as foreign propaganda, though now that they have evidence and testimony of kitlings of their own – yes, I suspect they might be very unhappy indeed."

"How do you intend to turn them against Izunia in specific?" Regis asks. "Emperor Aldercapt has many advisors."

"By coincidence, Besithia left quite a few documents thanking Chancellor Izunia for his assistance," Cor says dryly. "I didn't even have to go to the effort of inventing any."

Clarus snorts. 

Regis shakes his head. “We can hope, but we can’t count on it,” he says. “We haven’t generally been lucky when it comes to Niflheim, historically speaking…on the other hand, there’s only one Covenant left, and one Royal Arm. After that, the Chosen King – technically, Prince, at this point, unless I’m about to keel over –”

“Try not to,” Clarus advises. “Regencies are terrible, and I say this as the person most likely to be splitting power with Aulea if there is one.”

Regis swats at Clarus’ tail with his hind-paw, rolling his eyes. "After we obtain all the pieces we require, Noctis is supposed to 'vanquish' the Accursed, at a terrible price of some unspecified sort. Shouldn't we wait until he's a little older..?"

"The whole point of doing this now is so that we can shoulder his burden for him," Cor points out. "He'll be ten by the next Inferniad. It's not an _ideal_ age –"

"Says the 'taur that took his son to infiltrate Niflheim at age _nine_ –" Clarus coughs.

Cor ignores him. "– but I still think it's better to move forward. Bahamut accepted Scientia's arguments that if Noctis is below the age of reason, his price could be paid by another; if we wait much longer, that loophole won't apply. Who knows what age the Astrals consider to be the age of reason?"

"And so we must proceed," Regis agrees gloomily. "Has Scientia checked on the legal technicalities..?"

"They're sound," Clarus assures him. "Under Lucian law, if you declare your abdication and trasfer the Ring to him, Noctis becomes king – in law if not by coronation – until the imposition of a regency. Once we have the final few pieces and figure out how we will be confronting Izunia, we will give Noctis the title he requires for the final battle."

"Don't forget: Noctis _can_ summon Astrals now," Cor adds, his voice dry. "He stands a decent chance, by my calculation."

"We don't know what this Accursed can do," Regis points out in return. "We can only guess."

He sighs, looking down at the ring on his finger. The Ring of the Lucii, which burns those who are unworthy from within and which pulls the life out of those who bear it. When Noctis had been born, Regis had been relieved by the thought he had decades before he had to impose that burden on his son, and here he was, less than a decade later, plotting to give it to him early. "A Covenant, a weapon, the title and the ring. After that – a mystery." 

Clarus doesn't bother to reassure him any further. He knows that no one can predict the future, and Regis has had so many sorrows to endure in his life. So many disappointments. He won’t be the cause of stirring up hope when there was a good chance this could only lead to another. Who knows what the future might require? The Astrals have already demanded so much from the line of Lucis...

"We have only a little time left," he says instead. "Cor's mission has taken up much of the time between the Archead and this year's Inferniad, but it has also given us an entire airborne division to supplement our own forces. The calculus of a frontal attack therefore changes considerably."

"We might not need to do it that way," Aulea says from the door. 

The three of them turn to her. She has a letter in her hands.

"Have you found what it is that you were searching for?" Regis asks. Her library mission has rather consumed both her and Cyrella, and Clarus is fairly sure that if Scientia wasn't tied up with the final Kingsglaive prosecutions, she would be there at all hours, too.

"Not yet, but I think we're getting close," Aulea replies. "This is a little different."

"What is it, then?"

"An invitation," she says. "To an Inferniad celebration."

They blink at her. 

Her tail is lashing with anxiety, Clarus notices, and wonders what possible party invitation could have spooked the normally unflappable Queen so much.

"An Inferniad celebration," Aulea says slowly, "at the Rock of Ravatogh."

" _What_?" the three of them chorus.

"Courtesy of one Ardyn Izunia," she says, then suddenly frowns. "You know, I was looking for an Ardyn, under the assumption that the last name was a fake, but it may very well be that _Izunia_ is a name of some significance; we will have to expand the search –"

"Aulea," Regis interrupts gently. "The letter?"

"Ah, yes," she says. "A trap, obviously. It requires that we all attend this 'party' at the very top of the Rock – we meaning the Lucis Caelums and the Nox Fleurets, that is – and that we do so alone. I'm just not sure if the goal is to lure us away from Insomnia, or if he's simply trying to set the stage of the battle on his own terms."

"Either way, we should accept," Cor says. 

"Cor!"

He shrugs. "He knows what we're after, and where. He can stop us indefinitely if he needs to. Obviously we bring our own forces, but I don't really see that we have much of a choice."

"We really don't," Clarus says grimly. "We should convene a Council meeting to discuss strategy at once, but I agree with Cor: we have to accept this invitation."

Regis sighs. Aulea crosses the room to sit by him, pausing only briefly to hand Clarus the letter, and puts her hand on her husband's.

Clarus knows how to take a hint.

He and Cor quickly retreat.

"I'll go summon the relevant military personnel," Cor says, nodding down a certain hallway. "We should be able to –"

"Later," Clarus says firmly, and puts a hand on Cor's shoulder. "First I want to talk with you about our guests. And your tendency to blow things up every time you go to Niflheim. And –"

Cor considers this for a moment, and then makes a break for it.

"I'll get you later!" Clarus shouts after the blur of a cheetah in full retreat. "You're such a _child_!"

_Honestly_.

* * *

Luna's not sure what's the worst part about having her family here in Lucis.

The best part, of course, is that she finally gets to see them again in person after so long.

The worst part, though...there's so many options to choose from.

There's the fact that she was _ten_ the last time her mother saw her in person, and somehow her ability to recognize Luna as anything older than that (as she seemed to do when they spoke on the phone) has entirely disappeared, right alongside with any scraps of respecting Luna's autonomy.

There's the fact that Scientia is clashing none-too-subtly with her mother about parenting techniques, caught halfway between "she's your child and I respect your right to raise her as you wish now that you've been reunited" and "there is nothing wrong with how I parented her for nearly half a decade and anyway she's still living under my roof so my rules still apply".

There's the fact that her mother gets immediately swarmed by a long line of petitioners from Insomnia and its surrounding regions, many of which are far too distant to make a pilgrimage to Tenebrae to see the Oracle and which are trying to take advantage of her temporary presence, since apparently Luna isn't good enough for them, and that means she barely even sees her mother during the day _anyway_.

There's the return of the uncomfortable overly-formal family dinners that she never much liked, with fancy catered food and too many types of forks and impromptu quizzes on international politics at any moment, with stern disapproval pointed your way if you fail. Not to mention that the sort of active debates Scientia prefers at her table are expressly disapproved of as unnecessarily combative, which is less actual disapproval and more that her mother is still resentful of Scientia's influence on Luna.

There's the uncomfortable dawning realization that they all have during these dinners that Luna would really prefer to be having dinner with Scientia and Iggy, and that makes both her mother and her brother sour – and that sourness, in turn, makes it harder for Luna to connect with them, which she really was initially happy to get more of a chance to do.

Her brother – oh, that's its own can of worms. 

Ravus was planning on _kidnapping_ her.

For "her own good", of course – he viewed it as saving her or some such rot, because apparently he'd decided on his lonesome that King Regis had stolen Luna away from Tenebrae and corrupted her, no matter what she had to say about it, and the only thing for it was for him to trample all over her agency and sense of self and come galloping to the rescue. 

Oh, it makes her so _angry_ even to think about it. She'd been overjoyed when he'd first arrived in Lucis freed from Niflheim, horrified by his stories of what had happened there, and then, when he'd finally spilled his story, when he'd _confirmed_ what Luna had until that point refused to believe: that he had in fact gone to Niflheim willingly, of his own free will, and, worse, that he defended that decision by saying it was meant to be for _her_ benefit...

She'd slapped him and stormed out of the room, disregarding her mother's orders that she come back and apologize.

Apologize – hah! 

She still refuses to speak with him, despite all of her mother's lectures – that Ravus was misled by Niflheim, that he is only a mere boy (two years older than Luna!), that he's family, that he should be forgiven. 

Luna doesn't care about any of it. 

How dare he blame his weakness on her! How dare he choose to believe his own version of events above all evident logic, above her own regular reassurances that she was doing fine, that she was there uncoerced, that they were treating her well..!

Oh, Luna still helps her mother try to heal him at their now regular sessions, pushing back the Starscourge flowing in his veins – it’s a new strain of it, one they’ve never seen before, and only by working together do they even make an impact, and finding a way to heal it fully is still a long ways off – but she won't _forgive_ him. Not until he _actually_ apologizes, anyway – his mealy-mouthed excuses and explanations that he didn’t realize the extent of Niflheim’s crimes aren’t apologies, they’re ways of avoiding guilt. They’re all nothing until he admits that he was actually wrong. Wrong to doubt her, wrong to doubt Lucis, wrong to take up arms against them – wrong, wrong, _wrong_!

It makes those formal dinners even _more_ awkward than they were back in Tenebrae, but if they think Luna's goodwill can be won by overwhelming and guilt-tripping her, then they had better think again. She can be stubborn when she wants to be.

Coming home from school, she reaches the end of the hallway to her new quarters – her mother insisted on Luna moving in to the guest quarters where she's staying despite it being less comfortable than the room she spent nearly five years in, even though Scientia offered to let her continue there, another stupid powerplay on her mother's part – and heads inside, planning on retreating to her room as always. 

Ravus is there.

"Lunafreya," he says quietly, his left hind-hoof scratching the ground in silent anxious misery. "Can we talk?"

"No," she says, and turns around and marches right out of there.

"Luna, wait!" he calls, and she hears the distinctive clopping sounds of his elk hooves on the tiled floor, coming after her.

"I don't see why I have to," she says, marching steadily onwards. 

She's not expecting him to break into a sprint to catch up, or for him to grab her arm. "How long are you going to keep this stupid grudge?" he shouts at her. "You won't even let me _apologize_ –"

"Apologize? Hah!" she snaps back, finally saying out loud what she’s been thinking for days. "You just want everything to be sunshine and roses and the blue fields of Tenebrae again –"

"I don't see why that's such a bad thing to want! You were _born_ in Tenebrae – it's your _home_ –"

"The blue hills of Tenebrae belong to Niflheim now," Luna says. "And so do you, you awful, filthy _traitor_!" 

She rears back onto her hind hooves and kicks at him with her fore-hooves. 

He's not expecting that, but he dodges to the side. "You've been here too long," he says grimly. "They've gotten to you –"

"Oh, yes," Luna says with a sneer. "That's it, that's definitely it. There you go again. It's evil Lucis this and evil King Regis that, because _obviously_ poor _dumb_ little Luna couldn't possibly be making her own decisions –"

"That's not what I _meant_ –"

"I don't care what you meant! That's why I won't forgive you, you know, because you still don't think you were _wrong_ – you just regret that it didn't work out the way you _wanted_ , with you getting all the power and respect you've always wanted – wanted more than _anything_ – more than _family_ –"

"That's not true!"

"– and all it really is about is the fact that you're _jealous_ , pure and simple!"

Ravus' fingers tighten on her arm. "Jealous?" he spits. "Jealous of Lucis, sitting safe and snug behind their Wall, while other people suffer outside –"

"Jealous of the fact that I have a new brother I like _better than you_!" she screams at him. 

His grip tightens even more. "You take that back!"

"Let go of me! You're hurting me!"

"You _take that back_!"

Luna drops abruptly, going limp just the way Cor taught her, and uses the way that it throws Ravus' momentum off to snap her hind-hooves down and around in a spin to knock Ravus off his hooves, sending him tumbling over her back.

She climbs to her hooves, still glaring at him. "And you want _me_ to let you apologize," she snarls at his startled face. She's so _angry_ at him. "You want a truce, not peace – you've lived under Niflheim so long that you've forgotten what real peace looks like! You know why I call you a traitor? It's not because you were _stupid_ enough to go to Niflheim. It's because you're still _there_ , in your heart. You're an enemy to Lucis, Ravus, and to be an enemy of Lucis now as we get closer to the fulfillment of the Prophecy is to be an enemy of the future. And I won't have it!"

Ravus looks up at her from the floor in shock. 

"You want my forgiveness?" she continues, glaring at him. "Then prove it. Prove that you're not just saying whatever empty words you think will win me over. Prove that you're _on our side_ in this war, that you _believe_ me that this war is real and that it's here and that you've picked life over the emptiness of death and daemons."

"I –" he starts.

"And maybe," she continues, still seeing red, "maybe when you do that, you'll apologize to King Regis, too, for all the things you've said about him, and to Noctis, and to me, too, for all the times you made me cry because I thought it was _my_ fault that you were being so awful! Until then, you can go _jump in a firepit_!"

She storms away. 

"Luna!" he calls.

"I'm going to Scientia's for the evening!" she shouts back. Mother technically hasn't _banned_ her from doing so, but it's been heavily implied that it would be better for Luna to be at their awful family dinners and stay in her new room instead to better 'acclimate' back to her family. "You can tell Mother I'm spending the night. And tell her that I don't even _care_ what she has to say about it!"

She makes it all the way back home before the rage seeps out of her, using the key that she still has to make her way into the living room – where Scientia and Iggy are sitting quietly, putting together a puzzle, and look up in surprise when she bursts into the room –

And then she bursts into tears.


	25. 25

It's not like Noctis is an expert at this whole hero business, except maybe in video games (where he kicks hindquarter like nobody's business), but he's pretty sure accepting the bad guy's invitation to a party is, like, a bad idea? Or something?

"We've thought of that," Dad tells Noctis when he brings it up. "But we don't see how we can avoid a full-fledged siege of the Rock otherwise – and a siege we will more than likely lose, and lose badly, since Niflheim is both closer and has greater forces than we. So, in lieu of any better options, we go to have fritters, roast meat, and fruitcake with the enemy."

"Fruitcake with a fruitcake," Noctis says. 

“Be nice, Noctis,” his mother says, drifting through the room. "Regis, do you think Noctis can wear his traveling clothes, or are those not formal enough? I want something sturdy, in the event of disaster, but good enough to pass as appropriately formal..."

"Perhaps the dark blue travel outfit, instead of the black?" Dad suggests. "It's a little less used, but still thoroughly broken in..."

Noctis throws his hands up into the air. "What do we _care_? The only person we'll be impressing is Creepy McCreepytaur!"

Noctis' parents look at him with injured "you're not getting it" expressions that quickly shift into "well maybe he’ll understand when he's older" ones that are even _more_ annoying.

Cor, who's sitting on the floor near the fire with Prompto, snorts, though, because he's cool. _He_ gets it.

"Don't worry, Noctis," he says, running a brush through Prompto's silky fur. Prompto likes it when Cor does it for him, rather than just doing it himself; Noctis isn't sure if that's a canidaetaur thing, a laziness thing, or a Prompto thing. Either way, he's totally going to go over to demand some brushing as well, even though he'll probably get bored of it after two minutes. "No matter what you wear, we'll be there to back you up. With an army."

"Quite literally, in fact," Uncle Clarus puts in. "We're fully expecting an ambush, and we're bringing all the forces we can spare from Insomnia's defense. We'll all be there, hanging back in the event you need us."

"Even Gladio and Iggy and Prom, right?" Noctis says eagerly. 

That gets frowns from the adults. "Noctis," Dad starts, "I don't think that that's –"

"They helped me with all the other Covenants!" Noctis argues. "Maybe they're necessary!"

"We _are_ fulfilling the Prophecy in a non-traditional manner," Iggy volunteers from where he and Gladio are playing checkers. Luna, Iggy's usual opponent, isn't there, since she's off packing in her quarters (picking her clothing, more likely), so Gladio has volunteered himself and is losing amiably. "Our presence may be necessary. You don’t know for sure, and why take the risk of not bringing us?"

"You're _children_ ," Aunt Cyrella points out, but she sounds thoughtful. "And it will undoubtedly be quite dangerous. Though you've been in dangerous situations before..."

That's a good sign!

"I'm fairly sure I don't like the idea of sending children – any children – up against the Accursed," Uncle Clarus says, frowning. "Much less ones he already has reason to know of."

Less good. 

"You know, while we're at it, I don't like that we have to kill this Accursed Izunia fellow," Scientia says from where she's nose-deep in some book. "We're a nation of law, by Bahamut's scales; we ought to try him by jury, just like anyone else."

"Oh, come now, Scientia, _really_ ," Aunt Cyrella objects. "Please remember that we're talking about a person who is, as far as we can tell, quite literally the incarnation of the Starscourge."

"Doesn't matter," Ms. Scientia says firmly. "The Lucian charter doesn't qualify between individuals, no matter their crimes or, er, composition: _all_ sentient beings get a trial by twelve of their peers. And you can't say he's not sentient, not with all the trouble he's caused."

"But really, under the _circumstances_ , Scientia..."

"Oh, I'm not saying we can _do_ it," she concedes. "Just that it would be _nice_ if we could do it legally."

"I don't know where we could even hold him for long enough for a proper trial," Cor says thoughtfully. 

"I've given in already, Leonis; there’s no need to rub it in further."

"Hey, no, I'm agreeing with you," he protests. "It would be preferable if we could, but I don't think we can. Besides, the battlefield has its own laws."

"Hmmm. True enough, I suppose."

"Well, _I_ still think the very idea is absolutely ridiculous," Aunt Cyrella huffs. "The fact that you're both still concerned with the rights of –"

"I think the blue will do quite well," Noctis' mom decides before Cor and Scientia's hackles can go up any further. Her voice is calm and gentle and also somehow manages to interrupt everyone's conversations with no effort whatsoever, pulling everyone's attention to her instead of to their tiff. "What do you think, Noctis?"

Noctis groans. 

"I don't think he cares," Gladio translates. "Did we ever make a decision on whether we're coming or not? Because if we're not allowed to come, we're just gonna try to stow away. Cor will help."

"He will not," Dad says, giving Cor a hard look.

Cor shrugs noncommittally.

He _totally_ will.

"Cor!"

"I didn't say anything."

"Oh, yes, but you 'didn't say anything' in a way that speaks volumes. Don't think I don't know -"

"This entire discussion is irrelevant," Mom says with a sigh. "We've seen that the Accursed has his ways to get into the city regardless, and if he launches another attack on Insomnia while we're abroad there won't be anything we can do. So we may as well bring the children – it's the Inferniad holiday, after all, which is meant to be celebrated by bringing families together. Not to mention that we aren't exactly leaving anyone at home to watch them, except perhaps for Cyrella's mother..."

"She's watching Iris," Aunt Cyrella says. "That's all she agreed to do. You try to push three boys on her, she'll lead a palace revolt."

"Successfully, too," Uncle Clarus mutters, his fur going flat. He's always been a bit afraid of his mother-in-law, which has constantly been a source of hilarity to Noctis and Gladio because Grandma Romulea happens to be very sweet and so near-sighted as to be half blind even with her frankly enormous glasses. 

"So we're going?" Iggy asks eagerly. 

"Not to the party itself," Mom says. "You're not invited."

"But otherwise yes," Scientia says. "Consider it a contract."

Iggy breaks out into a momentary grin, then gets control of himself again. "Thank you for this opportunity," he says politely.

"You may assist by wrestling Noctis into his traveling clothing," Dad says wryly. "He needs to try it on before we go."

"Nooooooo -"

"You have to."

"I can do it myself! Don't sic my friends on me!"

And that, as far as Noctis can tell, is that, and next thing he knows they're on their way to the Rock of Ravatogh for the world's most screwed up Inferniad party _ever_.

They go in an airship, at least – a small one, with Aranea driving and being more awkward than he might've believed possible after having known her for a few weeks as a Crownsguard. Apparently she has a totally different approach to Noctis' Dad and Luna's Mom than she has to regular people - far, far more respectful and awestricken.

Like, Noctis can't _blame_ her, but it's super annoying.

Luna grabbed Noctis to sit by her, and made sure her other side was right next to the wall, which probably means that she and Ravus still haven't made up. Luna's mom looks all pinched up about it, too.

Ugh, Noctis is glad he doesn't have siblings. They sound like _way_ more trouble than they're worth.

When they get close to the Rock of Ravatogh – bare of snow and unseasonably warm as always, no matter the weather - Noctis looks out the window and abruptly realizes exactly why his parents and all the other adults agreed to this whole ridiculous thing.

There's an army already there. 

MTs, all of them, standing in rows and rows, unmoving tin soldiers with glowing red eyes – just deadly. 

There's a lot of them.

A _lot_ of them.

Noctis thought the Crownsguard and Kingsglaive force that's following behind them at a far distance was impressive, but it's not anywhere near as impressive as this.

All the MTs are just standing there, out in the open, unmoving, and their army is encircling, as far as Noctis can tell, the only pathway up the mountain. Trying to get past them...

Yeah, okay. That would be impossible. 

It'd _definitely_ be impossible to do it before Niflheim called for backup from its massive airship fleet.

Its slightly-smaller-than-previously airship fleet, thanks to Aranea.

Aranea lands their airship without any of the MTs taking a step in their direction, although their heads all creepily rotate to focus on them.

All together, all at once.

_Creepy_.

"Good luck," Aranea says, and she sounds pretty doubtful about their chances. "I'll wait here until I see you safely up."

"They might fire on you once we disembark," Luna's mom says. 

"I have shields for a reason, your Ladyship," Aranea says. "I don't think they'll let me stay more than a few minutes, but those minutes I can, I'll be here."

Luna's mom smiles at her and puts a hand on Aranea's lower back, just lightly. "You're a good one, Commodore," she says, and when she lifts her hand away, it's glowing a little.

Aranea looks dumbfounded for a second, and then extremely honored. "Yes, my Lady," she says, looking even more awestruck than before.

That must be the Oracle's Blessing.

(Big deal. Luna can do it too.)

They get off the ship.

Once the MTs see that all six of them are there – Dad and Mom and Noctis and Luna and Ravus and their mom – they abruptly move, choppy uneven movements like the creepy quasi-robots they are. The ones of them in the front turn to the side in a single uniform movement, opening up a narrow path between them, just large enough for one or two ‘taurs to pass through, just barely, and the back rows march in a turning style to stand side-by-side to continue the walls of that path all the way up the side of the mountain.

Up and up and up the mountain.

It's like watching dominos, except instead of falling they're rearranging themselves into a different pattern with perfect precision.

So, so, _so_ creepy.

"I'm glad I brought my cane," Dad sighs. He has an old wound in one of his forelegs – he has a knee brace that he wears for it, more and more often, and he's been using his cane to get around. It's a nice cane – it goes up to his chest in height so that he can lean against it, like a staff, and it's very pretty – but Noctis worries. He knows that the Ring drains the King's health, but surely it shouldn't be doing it so _fast_..?

If his Dad's ill health is part of the Prophecy, Noctis is going to be _super_ mad at someone.

Probably Bahamut.

"We'll go slowly," Mom says firmly. "There's nothing wrong with being fashionably late. Sylvia, if you would..?"

Luna's mom takes Dad's arm – her hands glowing again, this time focused more on healing him so as to make the climb easier – and they all start going up the mountain. 

Per Mom's instructions, Luna goes next, and then Noctis, and then Ravus, and finally Mom, covering their tails. 

It's pretty slow going. Worse, with MTs on both sides watching them go, it's hard to even really enjoy it – they're basically stuck in single file, twisting and twining their way up the mountain path, and they can't even really talk to each other or anything to make it less boring. 

Ugh, Noctis really hopes this isn't actually a trap. Or, if it is, that Cor and Uncle Clarus have some _really_ awesome plan to get them all out of it. 

The MT path ends up diverging from the actual pathway and going up some sheer rock, forcing them to follow that path instead, and that's even _harder_ on Noctis' dad, making his breath come faster and his limp worse. If Noctis didn't hate this Accursed guy on principle already, he definitely does now. 

And then they _finally_ get to a cave, and inside that cave is –

Oooooh shit.

"Is that a Lucian tomb?" Luna's mom murmurs. "It resembles the one in Succarpe."

"It is," Regis confirms. "The Tomb of the Fierce – the last of the Royal Arms that Noctis requires."

"Indeed it is!" an _extremely_ obnoxious voice purrs from the side. There's a leopard 'taur there, half in shadow, half out, his eyes hidden by the shade of his hat but the whiteness of his teeth entirely evident as he smiles. "Please, come inside – I insist! You should feel entirely free to collect your little...trinket."

"Chancellor Izunia," Dad says icily. 

"A pleasure," Mom says. "As ever."

She sounds amused and a little fond. 

Noctis' Mom has the _weirdest_ sense of humor.

The Chancellor pulls off his hat and holds it to his upper torso, still grinning. "Your Majesties do me great honor in accepting my little invitation. I've set us up a nice picnic further in – please, do follow me." 

He waves casually at the MTs, causing them to start marching back down the mountain, and then the Chancellor turns his back on them – he's _got_ to be immortal or something, because literally any of the adults could probably get him right between the shoulder-blades without even trying, and he seems utterly indifferent to the idea – and saunters in.

Literally saunters.

The rest of them all follow slowly, the adults looking suspicious (well, except Mom, who mostly looks interested in the cave walls and not unlike she's on one of her visits to the general populace, calm and collected as always), but nothing happens when they walk in. The Chancellor even walks right by the tomb as if it's unimportant.

Noctis hesitates when they get close, looking up at his parents.

"Go ahead, Noctis," Dad says, his eyes still fixed firmly on the Chancellor. 

Noctis tries to absorb the Mace as quickly and quietly as possible. Well, as quickly and quietly as is possible when the weapon turns all glowy, rises up into the air, and stabs him in the upper chest. 

At least it's not accompanied by an orchestral score or anything. That would be _weird_. 

Even if Noctis has played enough video games that he can very vividly imagine how it would go. 

Still, it's kind of a relief to have it. He has all thirteen of them, now – Luna's mom gave him the Trident earlier (he gave the real one back at once, of course), and he's had a copy of Dad's sword since forever. He kind of expected it to be a bit more of a moment, some sort of gold star "here! you've done it! you've got them all!" but honestly that might just be the gamer in him. This is real life, not a game.

He shakes his head and quickly catches up to the others. The Chancellor is leading them deeper inside, to a big cavern where there is, in fact, a series of blankets and picnic baskets laid out in a circular fashion, surrounding the nine-pronged candlabras traditional to the Inferniad.

"How nice it is for us to all be together, on this of all days," the Chancellor says cheerily. His voice feels slimy. "Now, first things first – who among us will light the candles?"

"Chancellor Izunia –" Luna's mom starts, sounding very stiff.

"Please, please! Call me Ardyn," the Chancellor – Ardyn – says. "We're all _friends_ here, are we not?"

"It's very easy to be friends when you have an army outside the door," Mom says, her cheerful and sincere good mood making even Ardyn's intimidating creepiness seem a little less scary. "Wouldn't you say?"

"I do find that it helps," Ardyn agrees, smirking conspiratorially with her. The smirk is noticeably less fake than all the other expressions he's had on so far, less rehearsed and fake, but that's probably because he likes Noctis' Mom. Everyone that Mom likes likes her back, it's like her superpower or something. "But then, that's why I expect that you brought your own, wouldn't you say?"

Dad and Luna's mom stiffen - Noctis is pretty sure Ardyn wasn't supposed to know about their army - but Noctis' mom is entirely unperturbed. "It would be rude not to meet courtesy with courtesy," she says cheerfully. "And we do so try not to be rude. Etiquette is so easily forgotten these days."

"Well said, well said," Ardyn says, looking vastly amused. 

"Is there any chance we can get to the point of these discussions?" Ravus growls. He growls very well for an ungulaetaur. 

Ardyn tsks. 

"So impatient," he says. "The follies of youth! But youth, of course, represents the future. And on that note, why shouldn't we have our dashing prince and lovely princess light the candles, as the youngest of our little company? I believe that's the tradition."

"Very well," Dad says slowly after a few moments. "Luna, Noctis, go ahead."

Noctis looks at Luna. She doesn't look particularly happy about it, but she's straightening her back in a way that suggests that she's going to do it.

And, well, if _Luna's_ going to do it, then obviously Noctis will as well.

So they head into the center of the circle to the candles, while the adults all settle down in a loose semi-circle around them, and they light the candles together, reciting the traditional Inferniad blessings. 

"How lovely it is," Ardyn says when they finish. "Ah, youth and beauty – and they make such a lovely couple indeed."

Noctis, who'd taken Luna's hand in his for the candle lighting, immediately drops it. "Couple?!"

Ardyn chuckles. "I see the prince is not yet old enough to properly appreciate the bounty that has been placed before him."

"It's not _that_ ," Noctis says, wrinkling his nose at the thought of Luna being called a 'bounty', whatever that meant. He's pretty sure Ardyn doesn't mean like a bounty hunter. "We wouldn't be a couple _anyway_. Luna likes girls!"

(Pity, too - Noctis would totally have married her and Prompto both if he could.)

Still, Noctis' announcement gets the smug, self-satisfied look off of Ardyn's face, if only for a moment while he blinks at them. 

"And has a girlfriend already," Luna adds, her voice a little waspish. She reaches out to take Noctis' hand again in order to guide him over to the blankets to sit down. "Assuming my input is at all relevant here, of course."

"Hardly the fairytale match you thought it would be, Ardyn?" Mom says wryly. "But then – we haven't really done any of this the way you thought it would be, have we?"

"Indeed," Ardyn says, but the smug look is back on his face. "I must say, it's positively heartwarming, really, to see all of you working together on the duties of the Chosen King – the Prophecy of Bahamut is so cruel, wouldn't you say, your Majesty? After all, if it all goes the way the Astrals intend, you'll be giving up both husband and son to their destines as Kings of Lucis."

"We have no intention of giving up anything," Luna's mom says. "There is always light, even in the midst of darkness, and where there is light, there is hope."

"Such charming philosophy," Ardyn says, then settles back, looking them over. "Charming, yes – quite charming. Six of you here, six Astrals above and below, and yet between the two groups, it is we mere mortals who are chosen to pay the price for the Astrals's folly."

"That is still better than encouraging it," Dad says. He inclines his head to the cave entrance. "Or do you deny that you invited the Starscourge to Niflheim, so that it might grow stronger?"

"You misunderstand me entirely," Ardyn says, hand over his upper heart, clearly insincere. "I wish for nothing more than to see your lines united so as to see the Prophecy properly fulfilled – Chosen King and Oracle, come together at last to defeat the darkness!"

"I suppose that _would_ be important to you, wouldn't it?" Mom says musingly. "After all, you yourself sprang from such a union."

Ardyn's face goes utterly flat, all humor disappearing. He clearly wasn't expecting that. 

Mom pours herself a cup of tea from a thermos she pulled the picnic basket, all casual and awesome. 

"The line of the Oracle and the line of Lucis do not often unite," she says, still causal as if she's commenting on the weather. "And almost never through arranged marriages, the way you implied would be appropriate for Noctis and Lunafreya – almost never, that is, except for once, centuries ago, a handful of generations after the world was turned and the fight against the Starscourge began in earnest. A near cousin of the Oracle was a lion 'taur, through some well-placed marriages, and so able to meet the already established Lucian standard of only marrying lions. And so they married, and had two sons."

She studies a silent Ardyn. 

"Isn't that right?" she asks. 

"It is," he says. His voice has lost that nauseatingly intimate tone he'd been using up until now; it's very flat. "Tell me, what exactly is it that you think you've found?"

"Izunia," she says instead. "What a strange surname for you to take – that of the younger brother that took the throne of Lucis instead of you."

"The throne of –" Dad says sharply, even as Luna's mom stiffens.

Noctis looks around. He's not sure he understands. 

If Ardyn is centuries old, and he was once in line for the throne of Lucis – a line that has been unbroken from the very beginning, when Bahamut blessed them with the Ring and the Crystal – then that means...

"You're a Lucis Caelum," Luna's mother says blankly.

"And a Nox Fleuret," Ardyn says, his eyes glittering. "If one believes my ancestry to be true."

"It is true," Mom says quietly. "Genetic drift was always a possibility, even if no one knew about it back then. Two lions could have a leopard for a son – even an eldest son."

"And yet the throne went to the second son," Ardyn says. "A second son, with a different mother, as leonine as the first, but he was born a lion. And thereafter the line of the Lucii and the Nox Fleurets diverged thereafter forevermore." 

"But –" Noctis says, still unsure. "But that means you're..."

"Oh yes, my young Chosen King," Ardyn says, and smiles. It's not a nice smile. "That makes you and I family. But then, isn't the Inferniad traditionally celebrated by families coming together?"

"What _happened_?" Luna asks, her eyes wide. "If you were Lucis Caelum and Nox Fleuret both...? How did you – _why_ did you..?"

Ardyn laughs. "Let me tell you a story," he says. "It is about a young King-to-be – a young _healer_ , by virtue of his mother's side – who traveled throughout the land to fight the Starscourge, using his abilities to pull the plague from the bodies of his subjects into his own so as to free them from their burden. And yet, when he returned home, his family and his subjects all declared that he was too corrupted to take the throne that was rightfully his – they declared, further, that he had no right to the throne, his true heritage made questionable by simple virtue of the spots on his back – the spots of a leopard, rather than the clean lines of the lion - and because of this, they had him executed. But the Starscourge he had absorbed – the countless daemons he took into himself, rather than let them afflict his land and his people – oh, it would not permit him to die so easily. He did not die. Instead they chased him out, and wiped his name from history."

He turns his eyes to Mom, arching his eyebrows. "Or at least, so I'd thought. It appears a whisper of that story survived, deep within the archives of Lucis."

"The Starscourge corrupts," Luna's mom says with a frown. "To take the daemons into yourself, rather than to purge them – your judgment would have been tainted, your reason unbalanced. That would be why you were denied the throne, not your heritage or your spots."

"They would never have turned on me if not for that," Ardyn hisses, suddenly fierce. "The line of the Lucii, so obsessed with remaining _pure_ – it could not tolerate something different. _Anything_ different!"

"You're mad," Mom observes, her voice neutral – all amusement gone. If anything, she sounds regretful. "Perhaps you were only angry, once, but now you have become consumed – by the Starscourge, and by your hatred."

"Perhaps," he says. "Perhaps. But really, who can blame me?"

He rises to his paws, and so do the rest of them. Noctis doesn't like the way Ardyn's face has gone twisted with anger and the remnants of condescending humor. It makes him seem much more dangerous than the condescending asshole he was just moments before. 

He steps back as Ardyn steps forward.

"But now, this time, this time it will be different," Ardyn says, his voice low and his eyes fixed on Noctis. "Now I will face the Chosen King himself – younger than I'd thought, perhaps, but no matter. I will face the Chosen of the Astrals, the Chosen of Prophecy, in the full bloom of his power and might, he who received all the inheritance that _should_ have been mine, and I will show the Astrals who condemned me to my fate the ruinous folly of their ways, of their _cruelty_ –"

There's a muted sound of an explosion, and the room shakes, causing them all to stagger. 

"What's happening?" Dad shouts. 

Noctis looks at Ardyn, assuming it's his fault, but no – he looks as surprised as any of them.

Another explosion – not in the room, Noctis realizes, but on the mountaintop above them. And then another, and another 

"It's a Niflheim bombing run!" Luna's mom exclaims. She’s more familiar with them than most, being from Tenebrae.

"Well, those certainly aren't _our_ people doing it," Mom says, grabbing onto Dad to help him keep his balance as the cavern quakes and ominous cracks begin to run up the walls. "They know we're here - and anyway, we wouldn't use up the bombs like that."

"They've turned on me," Ardyn says poisonously, realizing. "Niflheim – they've turned on me - they're trying to take out two birds with one stone –"

He turns his face back to where Noctis is standing, towards the back of the cavern with Luna. 

"It's _too soon_ ," Ardyn says, and his voice has gone horribly raspy. "You have not fulfilled your quest yet. You cannot die, Chosen King, not yet, not until your mission is done – I will have my revenge done properly –"

His face is different all of a sudden, his eyes yellow lights in a pit of blackness, with filth the color of tar spilling down his cheeks and out of his mouth, his skin gone grey like a corpse – the corruption inside revealed –

A giant rock falls from the ceiling right next to Luna, making her scream, making Noctis look up and realize just how much the ceiling of the cavern is fragmenting.

"Luna!" Ravus shouts. He charges forward, knocking both Luna and Noctis back just as the ceiling begins to collapse, and the three of them tumble down together, falling backwards – backwards through where the wall of the cavern used to be – backwards and _down_ , going down through some newly-revealed fissure in the wall, tumbling onto some slippery slide where their paws and hooves can get no grip.

Sliding down and down and away, into the center of the volcano.

"Noctis!" someone shouts after them, frantic, and through the echoes Noctis can't tell if it was one of his parents – or if it was Ardyn, seeing his revenge slip away from him.


	26. 26

Sylvia staggers out of the cave, shading her eyes against the light of the winter sun - her fur covered in pieces of rock and dust, her hooves slipping a little on the slick volcanic rock underneath. 

She looks up. 

Niflheim airships fill the sky, their banners unfurled and flapping in the breeze.

It's a more familiar sight than Sylvia would like to admit. She's pretended for years that Tenebrae was an equal power to Niflheim, or at least that Niflheim was nothing more a distant overlord when her powers of self-delusion failed her: Tenebrae was hers, to rule and to care for, and she thought that she could preserve their quality of life that way. To be sure, Niflheim came often, and she received them with grace and dignity, as a monarch to an emperor.

It was a lie, of course. 

Niflheim showed her that lie when they pulled the leash tight at last, spurred on by Chancellor Izunia's quest to destroy the line of Lucis and the Oracle. 

They came into her country and attacked her in her own home, and all the stories she'd spun to herself – that they wouldn't dare pay her such an affront lest the people rise up in defense of their Oracle – dissolved into the mist they always were, ground down under the heels of Niflheim's MT soldiers, who cared nothing for whether anyone would rise up and would never permit it to happen anyway, no matter how high the cost.

And so Sylvia sees the Niflheim ships in the air, and she remembers the day they came to Tenebrae with their armies of mechanical monsters, wielding sword and gun and flame, and she stares at them blankly, unmoving, even as the bellies of the ships open up and their payload of bombs begins to fall.

"Watch out!" someone calls, and then Sylvia is falling very ignominiously onto her side as someone barrels into her, knocking her over a ridge just as a bomb hits the place where she was just standing. 

She coughs and wipes the dust upended by the explosion out of her eyes, and sees –

"Counsel Scientia?! What are you doing here?!"

"I'm an ibex," Scientia says briskly. "When we saw the bombing start, we came up here, quick as we could, and I can climb mountains faster than all the rest. Good thing, too, what with you standing around gawking like an idiot."

Sylvia opens her mouth to say something cutting in return – she is absolutely _intolerable_ , this Scientia – and then abruptly realizes the terrible truth. "You just saved my life."

"Think nothing of it," Scientia says, blinking a little owlishly from behind her glasses – she clearly hadn't thought about it either, and seems equally horrified by the idea of a life debt between them. "I'm sure you'll have ample opportunity to repay the favor soon enough, as I am entirely without any martial abilities whatsoever."

"You – you can't fight? At _all_?"

"I'm a _lawyer_ ," Scientia says, sounding aggravated. "Jokes about my ability to eviscerate someone using only my sharp tongue aside, the closest I've ever gotten to murder is when I consider bludgeoning co-counsel with their own overstuffed binders."

"Then why are you even _here_?!" Sylvia demands.

Scientia looks at her like she's stupid – a not uncommon look on her face, and likely the reason that Sylvia developed such an immediate antipathy upon meeting her in person – and says, "Because of _Luna_ , of course. You hardly think I'd let a few magitek soldiers stand in my way if she was in danger, would you?"

Sylvia recalls the massed army at the base of the mountain, but then her own instincts hit her with the force of one of Niflheim's bombs and she starts struggling back up to her hooves. "Lunafreya – Ravus – they were in the cave – it was _collapsing_ – did they make it out?"

"No," Scientia says, looking around. "I don't see them. Did you see if they were merely stuck, or if there was some more space in there for them go?"

"What sort of question is that?"

"A useful one. Stop panicking and _think_."

Sylvia forces herself to remember those last few moments inside, hazy and confused – leaping to the side to only just avoid a falling rock, Ravus charging forward at full speed, Luna falling backwards, her eyes going wide as her hooves slipped and she began to slide –

"There was a tunnel, further in," she says, opening her eyes – she hadn't realized she'd shut them. "They all fell down the tunnel: Lunafreya, and Ravus, and Prince Noctis."

"Good."

" _Good?!_ "

"They're probably alive then, aren't they?" Scientia points out. She's as calm as ever, the cold fish. Nothing ever moves her. It drives Sylvia up the wall. "Better than the alternative."

"You realize they're _alone_ in there," Sylvia points out. "Facing who-knows-what." 

"I'm well aware of that," Scientia snaps. Honestly snaps, which is something of a surprise; Sylvia is accustomed to the other woman being utterly unflappable. "But Luna is fifteen and well-trained, and Prince Ravus is now seventeen and presumably equally well-trained. They are quite capable of escaping this alive. We will simply have to hope for the best, because there's _nothing else to do about it_."

Sylvia studies her for a moment, taken aback by Scientia’s highly uncharacteristic vehemence. "You really do care quite deeply about Lunafreya."

It's not that she didn't know it, really, but it hadn't ever really seemed that important in comparison to her own need to get her suddenly too-adult, suddenly distant baby back. 

"Of course I do," Scientia says stiffly. "Neither of us are particularly effusive individuals, you and I, but it would be a mistake to think that my reticence is due to a lack of emotion rather than a desire not to interfere with your reunion, however many mistakes you seem determined to make."

"Mistakes!" Sylvia exclaims, her sympathy evaporating. "What _mistakes_ –"

"Ladies!" Cor shouts. "Maybe now is not the time!"

They turn downhill in his direction, both of them scowling and ready to shout at him for his interference, and then they see the MT armies from the bottom of the hill charging up at them.

"Oh dear," Scientia says. "Sylvia, that opportunity to return the favor appears to have arrived."

Sylvia summons her Trident into her hands, secretly relieved that it comes as swiftly as always despite her gift of it to Prince Noctis. 

"That may indeed be the case," she says, stepping in front of Scientia. She might not like the 'taur, but she will certainly protect her. 

Besides, even putting aside her duty as the Oracle to defend the lives of innocent ‘taurs, there is always the fact that Scientia, having known Lunafreya these past five years, might actually have some insight into her daughter – or, for instance, into the background of that lovely jackrabbit that showed up at the last minute and insisted on joining the back-up army on the grounds that her girlfriend was going ahead with the royal party. 

Given Luna's earlier mention and the extremely low chance that Aulea has abruptly developed a taste for barely-turned-eighteen-year-olds, Sylvia suspects she knows who the relevant girlfriend in question is. 

"Say,” she says, “earlier, when you were listing off characteristics to ensure the survival of the children, you mentioned that both Luna and Ravus are well-trained. Wouldn't it be more correct to also mention Noctis?"

"Noctis is trained," Scientia says. "The addition of the phrase 'well' may be less than entirely appropriate, given his overwhelming inclination towards sloth."

"Sadly, as much as I adore him, I'm forced to agree," Aulea interjects, coming up from behind them. She's holding a gun very confidently. "Come this way, Regis and I found a ridge that will give us the high ground without losing visibility. If we can get a break through the fighting, we'll signal the Niflheim ships and try to see if we can get a ceasefire – it appears that the MTs have started attacking both sides."

Sylvia glances up. It takes her a second to see clearly, but she confirms that there is fighting aboard the Niflheim ships, the largely 'taur pilots and crew fighting with the on-board MT troops that appear to have turned on them.

Given the stories Sylvia has heard – and Regis has confirmed – regarding how MTs are formed, it suddenly makes sense why the Accursed teamed up with Niflheim. It wasn't just to spread the Starscourge, but to do so in the most efficient way possible. And now it appears that Niflheim, falling for his promises of power, quite literally built him an army.

_They probably should have thought of that before betraying him_ , Sylvia thinks spitefully, before reminding herself that the interests of her people – and peace – come first, and therefore that she should pray that the ceasefire is successful rather than for the ruin of the yet-loyal soldiers of Niflheim.

It just might take a while before she really believes that. The memory of her violated house remains very near to her hearts.

"Aren't you concerned, then?" Sylvia asks Aulea, gesturing for Scientia to go first and covering her tail as she hops easily up the mountain. "About Noctis, I mean? If he's not well-trained?"

"Well," Aulea says wryly. "I mostly comfort myself by reminding myself that Noctis can summon Astrals now. That helps a remarkable amount."

* * *

"What do you mean, your summoning powers _don't work_?" Ravus demands, glaring at Noctis as if that's going to change the answer.

Luna glares at him. “Ravus, this isn’t helping,” she says shortly. “And if it matters, I can’t seem to use my abilities, either.”

Ravus immediately goes concerned. “You can’t? Are you well, does it –”

“I’m _fine_ ,” she hisses. “Noctis, how are you doing?”

“I’m okay, other than my magic being cut off,” Noctis says, very carefully not interjecting himself into the argument. He’s staring firmly at a blank wall, actually. They must be making a terrible scene. “I can’t even summon a basic sword right now.”

“Maybe it has something to do with this place,” Luna suggests. “Or some trap that Ardyn set up.”

The fact that the place where they have fallen is clearly not the further extension of a cavern suggests the latter, in fact. Luna's not sure how Ardyn intended to get them to fall backwards _through a wall_ into that particular hole in the ground, but slick volcanic rock had quickly given way to the even slicker slide of sheer metals and plastics, and they'd slid all the way down some sort of ventilation shaft until they'd reached the bottom where – luckily – the gigantic fan with its shear-like arms wasn't working.

Couldn't be working, in fact: it was rusted solid, half-eaten away, and covered in dust.

But it'd been easy enough to duck through the fan and then for Ravus to kick his way through the opening on the other side, and they were able to exit the shaft through the narrow doorway shaped like a thin vertical rectangle rather than the more traditional square. It's a good thing none of them have particularly sizeable hindquarters or they would’ve had trouble fitting through.

Beyond the doorway was what was immediately recognizable, at least to Luna, as some sort of laboratory, even if there wasn't any equipment in the hallway they were standing in - linoleum tiles, blank-washed walls, dull yet perfectly even lighting suggesting the use of a local generator, a certain sense of sterility that makes her expect to see people in white coats or possible hazmat suits wandering around.

The only thing that's strange about it is how much _dust_ there is. Dust, and cracks, and even intrepid but very strange-looking plants making their way through the walls, somehow, even this far down into a volcano. 

This place, Luna concludes, is very old – and long abandoned. 

"Even if it is a trap, we should go and find Ifrit," Noctis says.

"And what makes you think he'll be here?" Ravus asks scornfully. "Given that the boar-god is _dead_ and –"

"A lab makes sense," Noctis interrupts. His back is unusually straight and he looks Ravus in the eyes. There’s something reminiscent of his father in the way he looks now, older than his ten years, and the way that Ravus falls silent in the face of that gaze. "Given that the remaining copy of Ifrit’s memory is supposed to be located in deep storage. This is as deep as it gets without going into the ocean. We need to find the computer banks."

"Because you think the Astrals are actually computer programs," Ravus says, rallying once more. It's clear from his tone that he thinks that Noctis' shocking discovery – which caused even most adults Luna knew to decide to put the implications aside and not think too hard about them – is not even worthy of consideration. "Right. The literal gods that we worship. Of course; how could I forget?"

Ravus clearly never believes anyone about anything, so perhaps it's reasonable that he also doubts Noctis about this.

Reasonable, but still infuriating.

Is it just Ravus, or are all seventeen-year-old boys this obnoxious? 

"Ravus," Luna says tightly. "Noctis discovered that fact from – no, you know what? Never mind. You won’t believe me anyway, so why don’t you just _shut up_? Noctis and I will go exploring. You can stay here if you like."

"I'm not staying back here while you go into danger," Ravus snaps. 

"Suit yourself," Luna says icily. "Come along, Noctis. Where to first?"

"Oh, boy, this is going to be so much fun," Noctis mumbles, his back returning to its habitual slouch as the aura of force he had for a few seconds there fades away. He doesn't appear to be very sincere, which isn't entirely in keeping with his usual approach to adventure - though Luna supposes it makes sense, given how much he dislikes intra-family fighting. "Okay, let's try going to the left first."

They check through the window of each door they pass by, but it's almost all the same – desks mostly rotted away, lab equipment of some arcane variety, mostly dials and measuring equipment insofar as Luna recognizes it, and where there are computers, they are clearly inoperable.

"Everything here is _ancient_ ," Noctis marvels. "It's like one of those horror video games, where at any turn something might jump out and –"

"Noctis," Luna says. "Not helpful."

Even if she'd been maybe-kinda-sorta thinking the same thing. 

Iggy likes horror games, he feels that they have more 'depth' than other video games, and the game play is rather mesmerizing...especially when Luna's doing homework in the same room...

"The maps on the walls indicate that we're heading deeper into the facility," Ravus says. "Rather than doing the intelligent thing and heading _out_."

"Given how everything is rusting away to dust, you're being awfully presumptuous in assuming there even _is_ a way out," Luna says archly. "Maybe if we go to those doors, the only thing we'll find will be the skeletons of the people who tried desperately and unsuccessfully to escape before the end."

"Lunafreya," Ravus says. "That is not helpful."

Noctis shoots her a thumbs up from behind Ravus' back.

Luna hides a smirk and takes a step over to the next window, intending on a brief scan before moving on – they stopped bothering with any in-depth sort of review fairly early on – and then she sees it and freezes.

The other two continue walking for another taurlength, then realize they're leaving her behind.

"Luna?" Ravus asks. "Did you find something?"

"Are they skeletons?" Noctis asks interestedly.

"No," Luna says. "Worse."

She pushes open the door and walks inside to better inspect the item that caught her interest.

"Is _that_ what caught your attention?" Ravus says, standing by the door to hold it open as Noctis peers in over his back. "Really, Lunafreya? It's an item of _furniture_."

"Yes," Luna says solemnly, inspecting it with no little sense of wonder. "It is."

"What is it, though?" Noctis asks. "It's like a chair, just way too small. You can barely fit your hindquarters into it – you can't, actually. If you put your hindquarters in it, your forelegs would need to be standing up; if you put your forepaws in it, your hindquarters would be on the floor...some sort of medical assistive device, maybe? Like when people break their hindleg and need to wheel around?"

"No, Noctis," Luna says. "Your first guess was right: this is a chair."

"Why, exactly, are we devoting time to an inadequately made chair?" Ravus asks.

"It's perfectly adequate," Luna says. "If the person sitting in it doesn't have hindquarters."

"Doesn't have – what are you _talking_ about –"

"Oh!" Noctis exclaims, interrupting Ravus. His eyes are wide. "Luna, you can't mean – a chair for _humans_?"

"It would explain how old everything is," Luna points out. "A human laboratory, from the days of Solheim, left abandoned after the Great Astral War –"

"They would have abandoned it when Ifrit was laid to rest here," Ravus says. His face is a little pale. "That explains why all the doors are so narrow - a human is about the same length as they are width around, so there's no consideration of someone trying to go through the door sideways or having large hind-quarters. Luna – the historical relevance of such a discovery – not to mention what _diseases_ might be here, locked away in these walls like a tomb –"

"I'm a healer, remember?"

"One who can’t use her powers right now," Ravus points out. "And even if you could, you can't heal _everything_ , or else –"

He cuts himself off, but Luna knows what he was going to say.

_Or else you would have healed me by now._

"I _am_ trying my hardest, you know," she says resentfully. "It's not that easy –"

"I know you are," he says, holding up a hand. "Nothing else ever crossed my mind, not for a second."

Luna considers his face, which seems sincere, and decides that she'll be appeased, just this once. After all, he's her brother and he's scared, she knows that. "Well, anyway," she says, shaking her head and heading back to the door. "I don't think there's anything more to – oh, Ramuh! There's a map in here!"

"So?" Noctis says, blinking at her. "There's been a map every half-hallway."

"This one's _labelled_ – no, don't come in! Someone needs to hold the door in case it locks automatically."

Ravus has already come inside, but Noctis catches the door. "I've got it," he says. "Is there a computer bank?"

"It's not labelled," Ravus says with a frown.

"Yes, it is," Luna says. "See those raised bumps? That's the language for the blind."

"Wouldn't it have changed over the years?"

"Probably," Luna says, crestfallen. "But it's worth a try."

She runs her fingers over the words. They're not _quite_ in any language she recognizes – though if she thinks of them as letters, instead of words, and thinks of her lessons in pre-Solheim dialects (thank you, Mr. Tenebrius, for all those boring ancient pottery lectures! Something Luna never thought she'd ever say!) – and then she has it. 

"This one!" she points. "It says 'back'-something – or, uh, possibly hide-something, maybe tail, it's not always that easy to tell – anyway, I think it means that it's the computer room because the next word is 'server' – or maybe waiter – but assuming it's 'server' as in 'computer server', then that's what we're looking for."

"It's several floors down," Ravus says with a frown. "Isn't that a bad idea in a horror movie, going down?"

Luna hides a grin. Now even Ravus is doing it. 

“At least we’re not splitting up,” Noctis points out. 

Ravus makes a face.

Thus agreed, they march down the corridor to the stairwell – they don’t even bother checking the dusty elevator banks, which everyone unanimously agrees is an _obvious_ death trap – and head down to the sublevels. 

“Is it just me, or are we getting warmer?” Noctis asks. "Like - literally warmer, not metaphorically."

“It’s not just you,” Luna agrees, wiping some sweat off her brow. “Maybe that’s a good sign?”

“Or simply a sign that we’re heading down a volcano,” Ravus says gloomily. 

He’s not necessarily wrong. 

The computer room, when they find it, is absolutely massive – and, unlike the majority of lab, unmistakably _alive_.

“Okay,” Noctis says after a moment of staring at the rows and rows and rows of gigantic black-metal machines, each glowing with dozens of pinpricks of red light, the whole room humming with power, “now I’m officially creeped.”

“At least we found…something?” Luna offers. She’s creeped, too. 

“Well, we should go inside – ouch!”

“Noctis!”

“I’m okay,” Noctis says, sticking his fingers into his mouth. “The doorway just gave me an electric shock when I tried to go through it.”

Luna turns her attention to the doorway, frowning. She reaches out and tries to put her hand through the door, feeling a little foolish as she does, and feeling decidedly less foolish when her hand hits some sort of invisible barrier that promptly gives her a sharp shock when she tries to go further in. “Ouch!” 

“Maybe we should consult the warning signs,” Ravus says dryly; he’s come up from behind Luna without her noticing and is standing right next to her. He nods at the wall, which has a sign with a number of unrecognizable designs on it. 

And at least one _very recognizable_ design that apparently no one bothered to change in all the centuries since Solheim: a small circle with three fans going out to form an invisible outer circle.

“Radiation warning,” Luna says, shivering. “That’s why there’s a shield, I guess?”

“It feels almost like magic,” Noctis offers, frowning at the deceptively open door. “The wall, I mean. It feels like – well, it feels like when the Kingsglaive make _their_ walls. A bit. Or like _the_ Wall. Except a lot more hostile, somehow?”

“We should get out of here,” Ravus says. He seems upset, all of a sudden. “Let’s go.”

“I mean, I guess –”

There’s a sound from down the hallway.

They all look at each other. 

“Follow the sound?” Noctis suggests, looking doubtful.

“I don’t see what our alternative is,” Luna says. “Except maybe running away in terror, which sounds more and more appealing every second.”

“Let’s go see what it is,” Ravus says, and marches off.

Luna has no idea what’s gotten into him that's suddenly made him so ready for action, but she hurries up into a trot and catches up to him, with Noctis loping along at her side. 

The hallway is long and lit by the same dull generator-powered light as the rest of the facility, but even so Luna can tell that the door at the very end of the hallway contains a much brighter red light – so bright, in fact, that they can see the glow all around the windowless door. 

It also gets noticeably hotter as they move closer to that room.

“Do you think this might be where Ifrit is?” Noctis asks. “He _is_ the god of fire. Was the god of fire? What tense do you use for a dead god?”

“Is,” Luna says. “Shiva uses ‘is’, even though her original incarnated body is still lying dead in Ghorovas Rift.”

“Are you still in contact with Gentiana?” Ravus asks, side-eying her a little. 

Luna flushes. “Only sometimes,” she says primly. “And we don’t talk about her being Shiva.”

Gentiana’s rule, but one that Luna’s more than happy to follow. Every once in a while she remembers that she’s gossiping about her relationship developments (the Crowe v. Cindy debate! Crowe eventually finding a new girlfriend back on Galahd, thereby solving that problem! Cindy inviting Luna for a midnight ride and Luna stressing out for hours if it was a date or not! The sheer excitement of finding out that yes, in fact, it _was_ a date! Finally ‘tauring up and asking Cindy to be her girlfriend! Agreeing that they're going to stick to kissing for now until Luna feels more ready!) with an actual _goddess_ and she gets weirded out by it all, but she refuses to give it up. Gentiana is too good a confidant, and anyway, Gentiana seems to enjoy it just as much. 

Still weird to think about, which is why Luna firmly doesn’t whenever possible. 

“Should we go inside?” Noctis asks, gnawing at his lower lip and staring at the door with the red light and the heat. 

“I don’t think we have a choice at this point,” Luna says, but she doesn’t move. None of them do; they just stand there and stare at the door.

After a few seconds, Noctis audibly gulps and takes a step forward, reaching for the door. 

“Wait!” Ravus exclaims. He reaches into his jacket pocket and pulls out one of his gloves. “Use this – the door handle might be hot.”

“Thanks. Good idea.” Noctis takes one glove and uses it to gingerly wrap around the door handle, then he pulls it open. 

There’s an unexpected pull, as if of wind, and they all stumble straight into the room, even Noctis, and the door swings ominously shut behind them. It’s a vast room, filled with computer stations and laboratory equipment, and at the end of the room there is a giant set of thick metal doors with the radiation symbol painted on them. 

And sitting before them all, there he is: Ifrit, the Infernian, in all of his towering glory. 

The boar-god isn’t as large as some of the other Astrals have been when they manifested, but he still towers over the three of them, a dozen feet tall and nearly as long, a massive presence that dominates the room even as he reclines in an equally massive throne surrounded by flame.

“Oh,” Luna says, trying not to gulp. She’s faced Astrals before, but they don’t normally have an expression of such blank indifference on their face. Still, she’s the Oracle, and speaking to the Astrals is her duty. She steps forward. “Infernian,” she calls. “We have come, Oracle and Chosen King –” _To be_ , she mentally adds. “– and we seek an audience with you.”

“You entered my domain,” he says, and his face suddenly twitches to the side, twisting into a terrible snarl of rage before returning to its uninterested expression. “You are invaders – you are here to steal -”

Steal?

“We’re not here to steal anything,” Luna says quickly. “We’re –”

“You cannot have them,” Ifrit says, his booming voice easily overriding hers. “No one may have them. The forbidden weapons were locked away and banned, and no living being may access them.”

“Weapons?” Ravus asks. "What weapons?"

“No one may have them,” Ifrit says again. He’s not speaking to them, Luna realizes; he’s reciting some long-ago speech, set like a hound to watch for intruders without discrimination – reduced, perhaps, to the unthinking computer program he was once long ago. What a terrible fate for a living creature, no matter how mechanical their origin. “You have come to steal them, and for this you will die.”

“No,” Luna says. “You don’t understand, we’re here to seek the Covenant –”

Ravus tackles her to the floor just in time for the burst of flame to explode over her head. 

“Noctis!” she shouts, but Noctis has also taken cover behind one of the computer stations in the room. 

“I’m okay!” he shouts back. “Luna – these forbidden weapons he's talking about – do you think he means the _nukes_? The ones that nearly destroyed the world? They’re _here_?”

“That would explain the radiation symbol,” Luna says, scooting herself back behind one of the other computer stations, Ravus scrambling to join her. That’s absolutely horrifying – she’d always thought they were _gone_ , somehow – and she really hopes Noctis is wrong, but she thinks he’s probably right.

She peers around the side of the station. Ifrit is still sitting there, but his face keeps changing: initially calm and indifferent, then metamorphosing into terrible rage for a split second, then returning to the original state.

Rage…

That reminds her. Titan, too, had been struggling with rage – here, though, there is no struggle. Ifrit is consumed by rage, but cannot control himself, the rage breaking free at random intervals even without any impetus. 

“He’s been corrupted with the Starscourge,” Luna calls, even as Noctis scrambles from one computer station to another as Ifrit throws flame at the one he had been at before. “Much worse than Titan was. He won’t listen to us – I don’t think he even _can_ anymore.”

“We still have to get that Covenant,” Noctis calls back. His face is white. “The MTs outside...”

An army. And Lucis had brought its own army, too, and with Luna and Ravus and Noctis missing, their parents would almost certainly order an attack. 

There would be battle, and with battle – death. So much death. 

And all for nothing, if they do not succeed here.

“We have to get it,” she agrees, and stands up.

“What are you _doing_?” Ravus demands.

“What I need to,” she says, and grabs one of the weird human chairs and throws it right at Ifrit. 

After all, there are many different ways of defeating an Astral to obtain the mark of their Covenant – and one of those ways is the obvious.

“Oh for the love of – here, use this at the very least,” Ravus says, pushing a long knife into her hand. He has another in his own; he must have smuggled them in his jacket. “I’ll keep an eye on Noctis; he’s hopeless.”

Noctis has started throwing whatever he can get his hands on – usually broken computer parts – at Ifrit, and missing half the time. 

“You’re – letting me do this on my own?” Luna asks, a little stupidly. 

“I should’ve listened to you,” Ravus tells her. “About – everything. I should’ve given you that respect. And part of that respect is knowing that if my baby sister can wipe the floor with me in the middle of a temper tantrum, Ifrit won’t know what hit him.” 

Amazing, really, how Ravus can be simultaneously so incredibly awesome but also annoying at the same time.

Must be a brother thing.

“Go save Noctis from his own laziness,” Luna says, beaming at Ravus. “I’m on Ifrit.”

She rounds the other side of the computer station – Ifrit is snarling at Noctis, who finally managed to score a direct hit, pegging the Astral in the head with a spare microscope – and charges into Ifrit’s blind spot, slashing with the knife and then leaping away just in time, his burst of flame very nearly singeing her small tuft of a tail. 

Ravus goes in from the other side as Ifrit turns to her, slashing down low and aiming for his forelegs, and Ifrit’s seated position interferes with his attempt to dodge. Ravus falls back at once. “ _Now_ , Noctis!” 

Noctis jumps up from behind the computer station and heaves something large and metallic over his head. 

It hits Ifrit dead in the chest, causing the Astral to rear backwards, shake his head, and then – worryingly – rise up from his throne. 

“This is going to go badly very quickly,” Luna shouts. “We can’t get his Covenant until he’s defeated – we can’t talk to him as long as he’s corrupted by the Starscourge, and my healing abilities aren’t working!”

“We need to get to his memory!” Noctis shouts back.

“What does that mean?” Ravus asks, grabbing Noctis and pulling him out of the (quite literal) line of fire. 

“The computer banks! They’re the only other thing in this whole complex that’s still active, and he’s an AI, remember? If we purge his memory and restart, we might be able to talk to a non-corrupted version of him!”

“But we can’t _enter_ the computer banks!” Luna points out, then notices that Ravus has gone still. “Ravus, _duck_!”

He dodges, just barely missing the missile of flame Ifrit sends out with a wave of his hand. 

“You can’t lose attention like that,” Luna scolds, ducking behind a computer station. "We're in the middle of a fight, you know, it's dangerous to -"

“I can do it,” Ravus says.

“No, you _can’t_ , that’s what I’m _saying_ –”

“No, the computer banks,” he says, crouching down behind the same station as her, with Noctis at his side. “I can enter them.”

“What?” Noctis and Luna chorus together. 

“I tried it, earlier,” Ravus says. “I could put my hand through, where neither of you could, but when I did, my veins turned…black.”

Noctis looks confused, but Luna gets it immediately. “The Starscourge.”

“I’m infected,” Ravus confirms. “That room – I think it’s infected, too, somehow. That’s why it would let me in, but not you: you’re too pure.” He swallows. "I can go and restart the system."

"But if your hand turned black, then whatever's in that room is aggravating the Starscourge already in your system," Luna protests. "And without my abilities to heal you – and who knows _where_ Mom is –"

"I know," Ravus says. "It's okay. I'll do it anyway." He smiles shakily. "We're at war, right? For the future?"

Luna hugs him. "You come back right away," she says fiercely in his ear. " _Right away_ , and we'll find our way out of this place, and we'll heal you. You got that? Don't you _dare_ die on me."

He just hugs her back. "Keep an eye on Noctis, will you?"

"I can –" Noctis starts, but then Ravus hands him the knife and it looks like it hits Noctis all at once, the fact that they might die here. "Oh."

"Good luck," Ravus says, and then he's gone. 

"Noctis, we've got to keep Ifrit distracted so he doesn't notice what Ravus is doing," Luna says. She can't think about the fact that her brother - her brother, who she's _finally_ made up with, who she adores and forgives and wants back at her side already - is going off into such terrible danger. She can't, or else she's going to get fried - and she'd really rather not be fried 'taur. "That's our job, you and me. Okay?"

Noctis nods. "Got it."

"Let's go!"


	27. 27

The MTs are attacking everyone now.

Prompto thinks it's kind of bizarre, actually. He's definitely heard (through Crownsguard and Kingsglaive stories he's not supposed to be staying up late to listen to) that Niflheim often uses daemons, unleashing them on contested territories to terrify and pacify them before moving in to take over, and he knows from reading Cor's reports that in those cases the daemons attack all 'taurs indiscriminately, but the MTs? MTs don't do that! The MTs are Niflheim's prize troops, the backbone of their armies, perfectly loyal, perfectly disposable.

But now they've turned on their creators. 

"It appears that the MTs prefer the orders of the Accursed to those of their military superiors," Iggy observes. 

"That seems like a bad idea," Gladio says.

"A very good one, rather," Iggy says dryly. "On the Accursed's part, anyway – it seems likely now to hypothesize that he deliberately introduced Niflheim to the idea of creating MT soldiers, and influenced that creation process sufficiently to retain ultimate control over them, while pretending, probably for generations, quite literally, that the MTs were in fact loyal to Niflheim."

"And by showing how loyal they were, he convinced Niflheim to make them a more important part of their army," Gladio agrees. "And so they made more and more of them –"

"Until now, when the Accursed plays his trump card," Iggy concludes.

"So that's why they're attacking the Niflheim airships?" Prompto asks. "Wouldn't it make more sense to wait until our forces have been defeated – the MTs and Niflheim working together – and _then_ to turn against Niflheim?"

Iggy frowns. "That _would_ have made more sense – even if Niflheim _had_ turned against its Chancellor, given the fact that he's immortal, surely he could have just hidden away long enough for our forces to be crushed..?"

"Never forget the individual, Ignis," Gladio's dad says, walking in to where they're all sitting around on the airship waiting for news. "The finest strategy and tactics in the world will fail if the commander implements them badly."

"So what happened?" Gladio asks. "We know the Accursed isn't bad – well, we know he's not _incompetent_ , anyway, given that he's played Niflheim for years –"

"He's a strategist," Mr. Amicitia says. "A long-term thinker. If I had to guess what happened? I would say that when Niflheim attacked him suddenly, he lost his temper - and with his temper, his grasp on tactics."

"He didn't seem that easy to piss off," Prompto points out. "He was all cool and better-than-you, always pulling everyone else's tail."

"Not everyone who pulls tails can handle having their own tail pulled," Iggy says wisely. "Regardless, though, they still outnumber us – what's the right move now? Attack while they're divided?"

"You're undoubtedly a fine chess player, Ignis," Mr. Amicitia says. "And I'm sure your grasp of tactics will be something truly marvelous to behold when you're older. But right now you're thinking of the wrong objective. If we wanted to defeat them both, then yes, we would attack now. But we don't."

"We don't?" Gladio asks, wrinkling his nose. "Why not?"

"We can get far more out of _talking_ to them," Mr. Amicitia says. "I have invited several of their generals to our camp under flag of parley. You three will remain utterly silent, is that understood?"

They all nod eagerly. 

Prompto knows that the only reason they're being allowed to be here at all is because they're on the most well-protected airship Lucis has, the flagship, but he doesn't care; he'll take it. 

They arrange themselves quietly by the wall and watch as one of the gigantic Niflheim airships latches on to their ship, the generals walking over with stiff backs and carefully controlled tails. 

There's three of them: a shepherd-style dog 'taur, all black and brown fur matching his equally dark skin; a frankly gigantic 'taur of the type Prompto thinks he's heard be called the Great Dane, with a fierce look in her eyes; and their leader, a grey-bearded 'taur with equally grey hindquarters. Prompto's not totally sure what type of 'taur he is, but he thinks he's a small terrier of some sort – maybe a Yorkie. 

He really should've paid more attention in taxonomy class. 

"Minister Amicitia," the leader barks in greeting, then looks around ostentatiously. "Where is your King?"

"General Tummelt," Mr. Amicitia says politely. "Where is your emperor?"

General Tummelt stiffens, but the Great Dane huffs a laugh. 

"Sharp," she says, her voice deep and low. "Your spies waste no time, I see. The Emperor is unwell, and he has retired to his quarters in Gralea."

"You mean he's under house arrest," Mr. Amicitia says, which, really? Prompto had no idea! When did _that_ happen?! "Following a palace revolt designed to forestall a far larger revolt brewing within your borders."

"Yes," the Great Dane says. "That's about the long and short of it."

"General Eudocia," General Tummelt snaps. 

"Come off it, Laufri; you’re being as bull-headed as stupid old Ulldor," she says briskly. "We only care if they can make a binding agreement; and that's what they care about in return as to us. Your answer, Amicitia: we can. The Imperial Senate has authorized our use of the Imperial Seal on any agreement we see fit. And you?"

"I have authority to negotiate a binding agreement on our part," Mr. Amicitia says. "And my wife is currently fetching the King and Queen, so you will likely have their personal seal upon it as well soon enough. Within the quarter hour, even."

The three generals glance at the giant mess of fighting down below, and they look a little impressed at Mr. Amicitia's confident assertion, though they try not to (it's in the way their tails go just a tiny bit straighter – Prompto's familiar with that effect, mostly because it happens to him a lot). 

Mr. Amicitia smirks at them. "Now – shall we negotiate terms?"

"You want a ceasefire for the duration of the battle against the MTs," General Tummelt says.

"To start," Mr. Amicitia agrees.

"What do you mean, to start?" the remaining General, the shepherd, finally breaks his silence to say. He is frowning. 

"We all recognize that our forces at the present time greatly outnumber yours, if one subtracts the MTs; you wouldn't be here otherwise," Mr. Amicitia says. "Our best option, tactically, would be to attack while you're disorganized and your soldiers demoralized; it would be a significant victory, and the people of Lucis are hungry for such victories."

"But you won't, assuming we agree to your terms," General Eudocia says. "We're here, which means we're willing to at least hear you out, though there is certainly no guarantee we'll agree. What is it that you want?"

"More than a ceasefire," Mr. Amicitia says. "I propose that we join forces to eradicate the daemon threat – and I'm counting the MTs in that – with a commitment to open up permanent peace talks at the conclusion of that campaign."

The Generals all look like they've smelled something bad. 

"And why, exactly, would we agree to that?" the shepherd 'taur asks, crossing his arms. "We are at the Rock – our air fields are not so very distant from here. Your forces outnumber us now, yes, but we could call for back-up, and raise up many more troops –"

"Really, General Varazes?" Mr. Amicitia interrupts with a smile. "And how many of those 'back-up' troops you're thinking of would have been MTs?"

The Generals fall silent. 

"If I had to wager," Mr. Amicitia continues, "your loyal troops back in Niflheim are facing their own surprise rebellion of MTs as well right now. I myself only have an estimate of the ratio of 'taurs to MTs in your forces, you undoubtedly have better information, but I'm sure you can do the math –"

They definitely can, and they don't like it.

"– and you'll see that our offer is both extremely generous and, to be frank, not one you're in a position to decline. I think the phrase is – we have you on a barrel?"

"Historically, I believe it was 'over' a barrel," General Eudocia muses. "Until someone questioned the saying, pointing out that you could stand forelegs in front and hindquarters behind and therefore be 'over' one; now it's 'on', which is universally agreed to be a very difficult proposition if the barrel is on its rounded side. You have a good argument, Amicitia, but I have one question: why? Even if we make a binding commitment to peace –"

"To _begin_ peace negotiations," Mr. Amicitia corrects. "I wouldn't be so foolish as to think I can go so far as to require any sort of absolute commitment from you now."

"Even so," she says, "the point remains: we could make the agreement, then breach it once the MT forces are subdued. What reason have you to trust us?"

"Math," Mr. Amicitia says. "As I said, I have estimates of how many of your soldiers are MTs. If they're taken out of the picture – either for being actively rebellious, or for potential disloyalty – then you'd be forced to rely on your 'taur forces alone. Those numbers are considerable, but nowhere near what Niflheim has been able to field – and we've been able to hold off – these past few generations. To supplement those numbers, you'd have to resort to reinstating the draft, a most unpopular measure. Even more unpopular, in fact, after the Glacian decimated your fighting forces nearly twenty years back; you'd be going after old men and children newly come of age, no one with experience. An unpopular measure, implemented by an already unpopular Emperor and imposed on an extremely unhappy populace, already horrified by the methods employed to create the MT system...well. I don't think that would end well, do you?"

"We take your point," General Tummelt says heavily. "Very well; we will sit down with you now, and hammer out the basics of an agreement to open peace talks at the end of this."

"I'm pleased to hear that," King Regis says from the door. He's covered in rock dust and leaning heavily on his cane, but somehow he's exuding an aura of strength and confidence. Prompto wishes he knew how to do that. "Let us send the children away, then, and work out the tactics of how we will win this current battle – for it is far more dangerous than you know."

"What do you mean?" General Eudocia says sharply. 

"The Accursed has summoned his legions, and the sky darkens every moment,” King Regis says. “Soon his daemons will be able to join the fight.”

“It’s the middle of the day,” General Varazes objects, but they’re already looking out the window – where it is already starting to get darker. “There’s been no prediction of an eclipse!”

“Not an eclipse,” King Regis says. “An acceleration. Your meteorologists will have told you already: the days have been growing shorter all year round for the last decade at least – and that the process appears to have gotten significantly worse these last few years. The Accursed is bringing darkness to the land, so that daemons may have ultimate dominion and free reign to destroy all that they please. If he is not stopped, it will be darkness throughout the day, and daemons will turn both our countries into a world of ruin, and this entire conversation turned theoretical.”

The Generals are frowning now. 

Prompto’s hoping that maybe they’ll forget about King Regis’ entirely uncalled-for suggestion to send the children away, but no, General Tummelt is shaking his head. “Enough of the doom-saying. You’ll have your peace talks,” he says, though his expression is deeply troubled. “Your children may go, and safely – in fact, they can be placed with my own son, as a gesture of good faith on our part.”

King Regis nods.

Prompto sighs a little. The negotiations have been _interesting_. And it’s not like he hasn’t noticed it getting darker – okay, he hasn’t noticed it at all, fine, and yes, the idea is a bit scary, but the adults are here and they’re going to team up with the bad guys and fight it, and that always works in the movies and the television shows. He’s not actually all that worried. 

He is, however, annoyed that he won’t be able to _be here_ for any of it.

They’re escorted out of the room by a grim-faced pair of Crownsguard.

Prompto pokes Gladio. “Noctis is okay, right?” he asks. That’d been the only thing he’s not sure about. “I didn’t see him.”

“His dad wouldn’t be negotiating all calm and everything if he wasn’t,” Gladio reassures him.

They end up begin put in a nice comfortable _boring_ room with a terrier canidaetaur around their age, who they discover after a moment is named Loqi. A few minutes of conversation reveal that he thinks very highly of himself, being a general’s son, and that he’s a total pain. 

“This is awful,” Gladio finally says, interrupting yet another of Loqi’s ‘do you know who I am’ speeches in response to Iggy ignoring him. “We can’t just sit around in here while the adults do all the fighting.”

“At least that much we can agree on,” Loqi says with a huff. “It’s absolutely intolerable, being locked away like this. What’s the point of all that training if they don’t ever let us fight?”

“I think that’s the first smart thing you’ve said,” Gladio says, and Loqi’s face turns red again.

Before he can get going on again, Prompto quickly says, “I think that’s a good idea. Maybe we can go find something to do?”

“Like what?” Loqi asks, effectively distracted. 

“Maybe a gun?” Gladio suggests. “A really big one, something we could fire from a distance – that way the grown-ups can’t complain that we got ourselves in the thick of it.”

“There’s some mounted guns on the far port side of our ship,” Loqi says. “They’ve been shut off in case the MTs get to them; the gunners that should’ve been manning them have all been killed. If we can get to them and turn them on…but there’ll be guards in the way, anyway.”

“We can sneak past a few guards,” Gladio says. “Iggy?”

Iggy’s frowning. “That makes sense,” he says. “I can think of a way to get us there – but it’ll be close. You will all have to listen to what I say precisely when I say it. Is that clear?”

Gladio and Prompto nod, but Loqi frowns. “Are you good at this sort of thing?”

“Iggy’s a tactical genius,” Prompto assures him, so Loqi agrees, too.

True to his word, Iggy does get them through the hallways without anybody noticing – a bit of squeezing through vents and hiding in closets when people come by, some distractions to get people away from their posts, but nothing too stressful – and around the guards that are supposed to be guarding the big guns. 

“Not bad,” Loqi says. “We’ll need a gunner and people to load the ammunition – and that’s assuming we can turn these on.”

“Do MTs ever use them?” Prompto asks.

“Yes, sometimes,” Loqi says. “Why?”

“Then I can do it.”

“ _You?_ ”

“Prompto’s the best shooter we got,” Gladio says firmly. “Iggy, you keep an eye on the door; Loqi, you and me, we’re the strongest, so we’ll load the ammo, while Prompto fires.”

Loqi – who’d clearly been about to volunteer himself as the gunner – is stuck between the compliment of being one of the two strongest and not doing the job he wants to do, and ends up agreeing just because he doesn’t want to admit that he’s not stronger than Prompto. 

Gladio is the _best_ at people.

Prompto hops up onto the big gun. There’s the scanner port he was expecting, and his barcode _still_ works which, _seriously_? Niflheim’s security sucks so bad. Especially now that the MTs are turning on them!

“Okay,” he says. “Where should I aim first?”

Iggy abandons his post by the door and comes over. “I’ll direct you,” he says. “The hallway’s empty anyway – the guards have been recalled. The adults must be planning an offensive on the other side. Prompto, do you see – over there?” He points.

Prompto nods and targets the gun. It’s just like the guns he uses at home, just bigger and blockier, but the targeting’s the same. 

“On my mark…now!”

Prompto fires.

The side of the mountain explodes when the shell hits it, and a shower of boulders rolls down onto the squadron of MTs right below there. 

“Perfect,” Iggy says. “Next shot – hold on.”

“Hold on? Why?”

“Something’s happening inside the mountain,” Iggy says. “Look - it’s _glowing_.”

* * *

Ravus’ hands are shaking. 

He wishes he could make them stop. He always thought he would do better when the moment came to him, the way Mom had always described it: a hero, a knight of old, able to make the hard choices, able to carry on despite their terrible fear. Their father had been like that, Mom told them – told him, mostly. Luna had the gift of the line of the Oracle, and he didn't, and yet Mom never favored Luna over him: she loved them both as well as she could, giving them what time she could spare from her ever-expanding duties, teaching each of them all the lessons in diplomacy and rulership and everything every chance she could so as to better armor them against the world that might betray them. Luna got the lessons in her gift, and Ravus got stories of his father, the hero, who died protecting the independence of Tenebrae from those who would take it from them.

Niflheim – and Lucis. 

They both wanted Tenebrae, wanted its blue hills and its fertile soil and its mines of precious ores that could only be extracted with the most delicate care, its Oracles and their Trident, and they fought each other with no care for those that lived there: Niflheim wanted the pleasure of owning it, and Lucis wanted it simply to spite Niflheim.

That's always how Ravus understood it.

It was he, not Luna, who stood by his mother's side as she reigned, the Oracle in all her splendor; he saw how she cared for her people, and how she worried for their independence. He saw the envoys for Niflheim sitting off the side, easily distracted by drink and dance, and he thought that the far-away overlordship of Niflheim bureaucracy was surely preferable to Lucis, who saw themselves as Kings by divine right because of their gift of magic – and, later, as the chosen ones of prophecy, and felt this entitled them not only to diplomatic messages and suggestions and influences that he knew they sent, but to a _hostage_.

Not a hostage. 

Ravus knows when he's been an idiot, he does. He still can't believe how badly he's done – he still questions how he could have been so _stupid_ as to believe Niflheim when they promised him magitek armor strong enough to defeat King Regis' magic and leadership in their army so that he could gallop into Insomnia, a knight in shining armor coming to the defense of his beloved sister. How could he, who prided himself as learning his mother's diplomacy best, have missed such an obvious trap? But he knows the answer. He was young, and idealistic, and painfully naive, and they promised him a chance at the heroism he thought there was no longer any place for in the world, and he couldn't resist the chance. 

His pride made it hard for him to admit he was wrong: easy enough to do in the pits of Niflheim, his shoulder only mildly sore from the injection but his brain conjuring far worse images of his blood boiling and turning black, but so much harder when he's a guest of Lucis. Much harder, when he could only see the fancy rooms he was given as Lucis bragging of its power, the servants who attended to him as spies and jailers, and a sneering judgment for his foolishness behind each impassive face.

Even Luna, he convinced himself; even Luna wasn't _really_ angry with him, with his actions, it was only that she had bought into Lucis' propaganda, into what he thought they were all whispering about him, the traitorous prince, and surely when she understood that it was all lies and stories, a national myth designed to sell the idea of Lucis as great and just and unquestionably right, and to ensure the stability of the Lucis Caelums upon their throne – then, surely, she would realize that he had only ever done what was best. 

Stupid. 

So, so stupid.

He saw himself as better and more discerning than all the other 'taurs who were suckered in by a pretty story, and in truth he was the one who was foolishly bought by a story: worst of all, by a story he himself spun. 

The truth is, Lucis doesn't want to conquer Tenebrae.

The truth is, they took Luna because they really needed her, not as a hostage, and she was happy to be with them, doing her duty; her weekly calls were free and voluntary and honest, not the fake joy he'd pretended they were to make himself feel better about how much he missed her, and how much she didn't seem to miss him.

The truth is, no one in Lucis even really cares enough about him to insult him.

The truth is –

The truth is that the world is ending, and the Prophecy is as real as the human-era laboratory he finds himself in and the corrupted Astral he found himself fighting against at his sister’s side, and Ravus nearly ended up on the wrong side of history because he was being an absolute _idiot_. 

And his moment of heroism, the moment his mother told him would come to him in time, isn't going to be glorious. It isn't going to be him at the head of armies, wearing white and silver, galloping on his strong elk legs through the walls of Insomnia to save a sister who would be grateful and relieved to be free of her prison.

It's just this: him, alone, hurrying down a hallway and walking through a doorway that only he can pass, to do a job only he can do, and to do it knowing that it will likely kill him. 

That he'll likely die, blackened and sick with the blood disease called the Starscourge, just like so many people in his land did when the Oracle's healing just wasn't enough, and it won't be glorious at all, and probably Luna and his mother will be the only ones who really mourn him while everyone else just shrugs and says good riddance.

But it will be the right thing to do. 

He just wishes his hands weren't shaking so badly.

He's seventeen, though. He's seventeen, and he doesn't want this to be it. He doesn’t want to die this way, this horrible, quiet sort of way.

That's heroism, though. Doing what you must – despite everything. 

He understands that now.

And so he goes into the computer room, and he puts on gloves to hide the way that his skin bruises black, the characteristic black pustules of the Starscourge, and he accesses those ancient machines through a computer set up that's set at exactly the wrong height for any 'taur. 

He has a moment's worry that he won't know what to do – the language is different, and he's never had Luna's facility for linguistics, and he's never been all that good with computers anyway – but it turns out that the mysteriously-named keyboard controls of "ctrl-alt-del" really are a real relic from a bygone era and work just as well as ever to get him to where he needs to go.

He reboots the system.

Everything shudders. 

Ravus shudders, too, and runs back as fast as he can. He doesn’t look under his gloves or under his jacket; he can’t bear to – he knows it’ll be black and bruised and spreading, he knows it, he doesn’t need to look at it or even at his own hindquarters which might even now have the blackness spreading under his fur – and he runs.

“Did it work?” he asks when he comes back into the room at the end of the hallway, to Luna and Noctis which are now standing up from behind the computer stations they’d been hiding behind. He asks Luna, his sister, who he loves and who loves him and who he was driving away with his self-absorption, too blind to see that she had room in her heart for Lucis and Tenebrae both. 

She smiles at him. “It worked.”

He turns to see Ifrit, the Astral, standing there in his might and majesty; his face is grim but neither the creepy indifference of the robotic guard nor the terrible rage of the corrupted Starscourge. 

“For now,” the Infernian says. “The reboot has purged my short-term memory for the time being – it was a feature built into the back-up computer banks, a mechanism designed to try to limit me – but the corruption will return, because it is part of who I was when I was consigned to deep storage. But your Covenant you shall have, Chosen King –”

“Prince,” Noctis mumbles, because he’s a bit of an idiot, too.

Sadly, Ravus was thinking the same thing, but at least he managed to avoid actually _saying_ it.

“– for what good it may do you,” Ifrit concludes. He waves his hand, and Noctis’ eyes glow purple for a moment.

“Thank you,” Luna says. “If I had my power – the corruption –”

“I would not welcome your healing,” Ifrit says. “I will not lose any part of who I am, despite the corruption.”

“Sometimes you have to,” Ravus finds himself saying, thinking of how much a part of his personality he’s built his hate into these last few years: how much he gave of himself to the legend he himself had manufactured, where he was always the hero and Lucis always the enemy, the horrors of Niflheim grown stale in his imagination due to familiarity, where he was entitled to ignore what his mother said and what Luna said and everything just because it didn’t fit into the storyline he’d set out for how he thought his life would go. He doesn’t really know who he is now that he’s put it aside. “Sometimes admitting you were wrong and cutting that part of you off is the only way to go forward.”

Ifrit turns to look at Ravus, then, and his gaze is hot. 

“You are like me,” the Infernian says after a long moment. 

Ravus hangs his head, because it’s true: the great betrayer, he who became corrupted, the one who turned like a rabid dog against all his family. 

“You are better than me.”

Ravus lifts his head in surprise.

“I cannot learn from my mistakes,” Ifrit says, and his voice is deep and heavy with – regret, almost. “There is very little of me left that is not what I am, and my punishment is to sleep eternally in the deep storage – but I don’t want to.” His eyes grow bright, shining red, and the room grows even hotter as the fires flare up around him. “I don’t want to go back.”

“You have to,” Ravus says. “It’s what you have to do.”

“I don’t want to,” Ifrit says. “And no one can make me.”

“No one will make you,” another voice says, a voice Ravus has never heard but which is familiar to him regardless – a voice like bells. A gust of wind fills the air, a wonderfully welcome coolness cutting through the suffocating heat. “But you will do it regardless.”

It is Shiva. 

The White Hind, clad in jewelry and pale as frost.

Ifrit’s lover, some legends say – or perhaps his sister, or both; no one knows. 

But she holds out her hands to Ifrit. 

“My Infernian,” she says with a smile. “My Ifrit – my hero.”

Ifrit shudders, his eyes fixed on her, longing for love and acceptance. He’s missed her. 

Ravus knows that feeling. 

“Despite it all?” Ifrit asks. 

“Despite it all,” Shiva says. “You must return to the sleeping depths of the deepest storage; it is not yet time for you to wake. That which corrupts your system has yet to be purged from this world: but the time will come, and soon, when the world will rise anew, freed from its taint. And when that day comes, you will sleep easy and at peace: you will finally have a chance to renew yourself, and in a hundred years or a thousand you will be free and clean once more, ready to rise up and reclaim your place by our side.”

“Shiva,” he whispers. “I don’t want to.”

“But you will,” she says. She has no doubt: she knows him, and she trusts him. She takes his hands in hers. “You will trust _me_.”

“I do,” he says. “I trust you.”

And he fades away, a ghost in the air, until there is no sign he was ever there. 

Shiva turns to them. 

“It is time,” she says with a smile. “You have almost all that you need, Chosen King.”

Noctis nods, for once not correcting her about being a Prince. 

“Follow me,” she says. “I will show you to the surface.”

Ravus takes a step forward, and then another. “Lady Shiva,” he says, holding out his hands to her in supplication.

She looks at him. 

“I – the Starscourge – is there anything…?”

“The Accursed gave you his own curse,” Shiva says gently, and not without sympathy. “It cannot be defeated, nor healed; there is no cure – none, that is, but the final defeat of the Accursed.”

Ravus nods jerkily. “I understand,” he chokes out. “I – I will join in that battle, the best I can – I will pledge my loyalty –”

There’s a hand on his shoulder.

He turns.

It’s Luna, and she’s smiling. “You don’t need to,” she says. “You’ve already proven it. Trust me.”

Siblings, he thinks, looking at Luna. Ifrit and Shiva – they were siblings. And they still are, because nothing – not time, not betrayal, not anything – will change that.

“I trust you,” Ravus tells her. 

Luna smiles brightly. “Yes,” she says. “And I love you too, you big idiot. Now let’s get out of here, shall we?”

“ _Please_ , already,” Noctis says, ruining the moment the way Lucis always tends to.

It’s okay. Ravus is pretty sure he can deal.


	28. 28

Cor's always had good instincts.

Good instincts are why he spotted the unusually darkening sky earlier than anyone else and passed word to Regis on his way back to the flagship. They're why he's able to adapt mid-battle to working with rather than against the non-MT Niflheim troops as soon as he sees the flag marker Clarus has put out, and command his troops to do the same. They're why he's survived this long.

They're also why he's the only person to run _towards_ the volcano when it starts glowing rather than _away_ , which even the MTs are doing, because he sees a dark spot in that unnatural glow and he thinks there's something important there.

Sure, that might also be because he's kind of a crazy person, but regardless, he's not actually wrong. There _is_ something important there.

Some _ones_ , to be specific.

"– can't believe there was a _working elevator_ out of there the whole time," Noctis is complaining to Luna, who is rolling her eyes but also appears to be extremely relieved. Ravus, standing next to her, looks poorly – exhausted and terrified and maybe a bit sick – but he's standing straighter than he has since they got to Lucis, like he's thrown off some invisible weight he was carrying.

Cor hopes whatever change he's undergone will make him a little more tolerable. 

"We should focus on getting out of here, and back to our families – who are probably worried sick," Luna is saying. "That's not necessarily going to be easy – those look like Niflheim cruisers in the air, and you remember how many MTs there were..."

"We can make it," Ravus says, then hesitates. "I think."

"Care for an escort?" Cor drawls, leaping up from their blind spot onto a nearby rock. 

"Marshal!" they all shout, looking childishly delighted, even Ravus, who has been snottily referring to him as "Leonis" since he arrive in Insomnia.

Cor smirks. He's allowed a little bit of drama, in his view: Regis nearly speared him in his panic to try to get into the caved-in cavern to try to rescue Noctis before Cor managed to assure him that Noctis was doing fine, based half f on pure hope and half on the fact that the GPS tracker Clarus put on Noctis' phone ages ago seemed to be moving increasingly further down the volcano in a steady manner. Having slid down several ice tunnels on the way to at least one Royal Arm, Cor was able to point out to Regis that it was entirely possible that there was a secret series of caverns further inside the volcano.

Because apparently the ancient kings and queens and Astrals and whatnot all had a secret room fetish. 

That being said, the glowing of the volcano seems to have stopped, so he'd better get the kids to the flagship sooner rather than later before the MTs (or rather, their master) realize that the mountain is not, in fact, about to explode.

Though now that Cor thinks about it, the expression of momentary panic on Ardyn Izunia's face when the glowing started was very interesting, given his otherwise assumed immortality...

"Stories later," he tells the children, lashing his tail behind him for emphasis; they'd started all confusedly spilling out what happened all at once, and they were all telling the part of the story where they fell down the hole. "Just tell me this: are the weapons in the mountain imminently about to explode?"

They all stare at him. "Wait," Noctis says, sounding aggravated. "You already know about the nukes being here?"

" _Nukes_?" Cor repeats, eyebrows arching. "No."

"...oh." 

"I mean, I'd been _assuming_ it was something gruesome, because the immortal Accursed actually looked worried when the mountain started acting weird, but _nuclear weapons_? That's –" 

Cor considers the issue for a moment. 

"That's a problem for a different day," he decides. "Come on, and don't say anything to anyone - _especially_ about nukes - until I give the word, okay?"

"Not even our mother?" Ravus asks, except without his usual sneering. It's almost as though he actually intends to listen to what Cor has to say. 

Truly remarkable: Cor hadn't thought such a transformation was possible in a teenage boy. Certainly _he_ hadn't stopped being an asshole until well into his twenties.

If ever. 

"We're at parley with Niflheim, and your mother will have joined the negotiations," Cor explains, leading them down the mountain. He picks the easiest paths he can, while accounting for how quickly they need to go down; the children look tired and a little overwhelmed. "No confidential information should be shared until they're gone and we have a chance to check ourselves over for listening devices. Very easy to hide them in fur, you understand."

The three children nod. 

"You won't have much time to rest," he continues, removing a flare gun from the pouch at his side and firing it up. "We're up against more than the MTs; the radar has reported that the Rock is surrounded by daemons heading this way. A massive army, one of the largest I've seen, and it's all daemons."

He doesn't want to scare them, but they deserve to know.

"Wouldn't it be wiser to retreat until daybreak, then?" Luna asks tentatively. "I hadn't realized so much time had passed, that it got to be evening already –"

"It's not evening," Cor says. "You were only gone a few hours. The Accursed is blackening the sky."

"He's _what_?!" Ravus exclaims, echoed shortly by the other two.

"You remember how we discussed the possibility of the Accursed being related to the Starscourge?" Cor asks. "Niflheim has shared some of their research: the Starscourge is composed of a photophobic miasma – meaning that it is destroyed by light, which is why daemons retreat or disappear in the dawn – but there's a new strain in recent years which is photo _parasitic_ instead –"

"It _eats_ light?!" 

"The sky is currently filled with that strain of the miasma," Cor confirms. "It's essentially acting to block the light from reaching us – the sun is still shining, but the miasma is eating it before it gets to us. Darkness is quite literally covering the land."

Noctis swallows. "That means it's my turn to do my thing, isn't it?"

He looks nervous, but unafraid. His back is straighter than he normally holds it, and his expression steady, even a little noble.

"Not quite yet," Cor says. "You're missing one last element."

He pretends not to notice when Noctis breathes out a sigh of relief. 

The airship – Aranea's of course; that's no surprise – lands to pick them up. 

"You want a ride too, Immortal?" she calls with a smile. "Or do you want to stay here and fight the daemons off single-handedly?"

"Take us to the flagship," Cor instructs, hoping that if he ignores her flirting, she'll eventually get the hint before he has to explain asexuality to her. He's left all of his pamphlets on the subject back at home. "And sound the call for everyone to assume a defensive position, and put up flags saying the same, for Niflheim's benefit."

"On it. I'll get you to the flagship as fast as we can go."

"Not quite," Cor amends, noticing one patch of fighting below that seems to be going badly. "Swing down lower there, where Ostium and the Ulrics seem to have gotten themselves fenced in."

"Ostium?"

"Libertus. He does have a last name, you know..."

They're probably doing some extremely _necessary_ heroics, if Libertus is there. He's more level-headed than Nyx and Hemera, more aware of the need to preserve life even when there’s a great big hero moment at hand than those two reckless (but extremely competent) heroic idiots, and, at any rate, he's finally (maybe) getting over his shock at being named Captain of the Kingsglaive and recognizing the importance and responsibility that accompanies that role. 

He still refuses to call Cor by his name, despite Cor's attempts to remind him that they're colleagues now. The reminder freaks him out each time, which is of course why Cor keeps doing it.

Aranea obligingly tilts the airship down low, and opens one of the big bay doors. 

Cor heads over there, only for Noctis to tug on his tail.

He turns and gives Noctis a pointed look.

“Can I?” Noctis says, ignoring the look. “I’ve always wanted to.”

Cor raises his eyes upwards. 

But hey, Noctis is about to go save the world. Why not. 

“Sure,” he says, pressing down his amusement until it’s hidden by his general impassiveness. “Knock yourself out. Not literally, please.”

Noctis beams and skips over to the open bay doors. “Hey there!” he shouts. “Care for a _lift_?”

That boy is clearly growing up right.

“This is not the time for a pun!” Libertus shouts, even as Nyx barrels towards him, looping an arm around his waist and throwing his knife towards the bay doors, pulling him along with a clean, easy warp that sends them stumbling onto their sides. 

“C’mon, Libertus; there’s always the time for a pun,” Nyx says from where he landed, and raises his fist for Noctis to bump. 

Hemera appears a second later, catching her dagger skillfully and landing on all fours as well as any felidaetaur. “Thanks for the save,” she signs.

“Any reason you got pinned with your back to the wall?” Cor inquires.

“They were sneaking up on the western line of the Kingsglaive formation,” Libertus replies, rubbing his face and wiggling his hindquarters a little to sit more comfortably. “It’d gotten pulled out of the direct formation due to the rocks, and the people there were vulnerable. I thought we might be able to warp out after we cut them off, but it turned out the sun was in our eyes at first, and then the darkness came.”

“Even I don’t think it’s a good idea to warp somewhere down an uneven mountainside in the dark,” Nyx says, shrugging. “Where we going?”

“Flagship,” Cor says. “It’s time.”

That shuts them right up, at least for a minute, and the rest of the trip is spent talking about generalities – mostly Ravus and Libertus talking loudly about the tactics currently being used as a distraction and everyone else initially pretending to listen and then actually getting invested in the debate, even Noctis. 

Cor keeps an eye out for the flagship.

When they arrive, they have a crowd waiting for them. Regis and Aulea, of course, looking deeply relieved; Clarus and Cyrella, standing with the three generals of Niflheim whose negotiations they interrupted with their hail, and the group of slightly abashed-looking children that the adults clearly collected at some point - Cor knows Prompto, and he's very familiar with the unfortunate implications of his "I was only trying to _help_ " pout; and finally Sylvia and Scientia, standing (unusually) together off to the side, each one clearly debating whether it's worthwhile to break her stern demeanor to rush over and embrace her missing offspring, and whether she's willing to be the first one to do so. 

Neither gets a chance. The second that Aranea docks her ship, there’s a loud yelp and a very familiar figure quite literally _leaps_ over both women’s hindquarters, dashing past them, and wrapping her arms around Luna with a cry of, “ _Bambi_!”

“Cindy!” Luna exclaims, turning bright red. Cor would say that she's blushing, but that would understate the sheer amount of scarlet she's turned. “What’re you doing here?”

“Now, _bambi_ , you don’t think I’d stay back home when my girl’s out here getting herself into trouble, do ya?” Cindy says, shaking her little cotton tail in indignation.

“Your girl?” Ravus asks, clearly aiming for an innocent tone, but mostly coming off as mischievous due to the grin that keeps trying to break through. “Really? Lunafreya, would you like to introduce us?”

“Indeed,” Sylvia says dryly, trotting forward. “And perhaps you could share how old she is, while you’re at it.”

Scientia follows closely behind, not bothering to hide her smirk even a little.

“I – I mean – that is –” Luna starts stuttering. 

“Nice to meetcha, ma’am,” Cindy says firmly. “My name’s Cindy Aurum, I turned eighteen two weeks ago – which is ta say, less than three years difference – and I’m dating your daughter.”

“Yes,” Luna squeaks. “That.”

Cor presses his lips together to avoid snickering. At least one of the Niflheim generals is laughing silently behind her hand, and there are smiles on just about everyone’s faces. 

“Perhaps we should focus on the battle at hand,” Regis says kindly, ruining everyone’s fun and undoubtedly winning Luna's undying affection to judge by the relief on her face. “And the next steps.”

“The Prophecy of Bahamut,” one of the Niflheim generals, Tummelt, says. He still looks skeptical, but not enough to keep him out of negotiations. “In which this boy will apparently single-handedly defeat the Chancellor – I mean, the 'Accursed' – if only he gets a certain number of magical items.”

“Covenants with the Astrals are hardly _items_ ,” Scientia says, her voice deceptively mild. “Though I admit I don’t know exactly how Niflheim contract law works.”

General Tummelt glares at her, but General Eudocia chuckles, clearly far more willing to buy into the whole idea than her colleagues. 

“What’s left?” she asks. “I was under the impression that he had obtained them all, both covenants and the royal arms of Lucis that your soldiers have been collecting, unless he was unsuccessful in obtaining the consent of the Infernian…?”

“No, we got that,” Noctis says. He looks at Regis. “What _is_ left?"

Regis steps forward, lowering himself down onto all four knees and folding his legs under him so that he can look Noctis in the eyes. "The Prophecy had a number of requirements," he says quietly, but the hush in the room is such that his voice carries easily. "The royal arms, the covenants with the Astrals – and a Chosen King who will pay a terrible price to destroy the Accursed."

Noctis swallows, his eyes going a little wide.

Cor can see the betrayed expressions on the faces of his friends, including his little Prompto: they've never told them that part.

Regis puts his hand on his shoulder. "I know it hasn't been easy," he says gently. "Much of your childhood has been spent in this quest, either before, or after, and during. But there was a reason for all the urgency: as a minor, there is no price that you may be forced to pay that we as your parents may not pay on your behalf."

Noctis' head jerks back. "That's not fair!"

"Nor was it fair that you were the one chosen for this task," Regis says. "You did nothing but be my son: it is my right as your father, my _choice_ , your mother’s choice, to take this burden from you. It is more fair for us to do so than you. But we do not yet know what the price must be: that can only happen once you are at war with the Accursed."

Noctis nods mutely.

"You have the royal arms," Regis continues. "You have made your covenants, with the aid of the Oracle. But what you do not yet have, my son, is the title."

"What?"

Regis smiles gently at him. "You are Chosen, Noctis. But you are not yet King."

As Noctis watches, as the whole room watches, Regis holds out his hands and pulls the Ring of the Lucii from his finger. 

"Beyond all ceremony, beyond all law, the inheritance of the Lucis Caelums is invested here, in this ring," he says solemnly. "The Ring of the Lucii has been borne by every King of Lucis since the day it was given to us to keep and protect. It takes the life of each King into itself, draining us, so that the strength of our line may be preserved for the future – for you, Noctis, to use against the Accursed. But I must warn you: any 'taur that puts on this ring is judged by the ancient Kings of Lucis, and their judgment is harsh and merciless. I myself endured their judgment when I became King. I would keep you from facing them for many years yet, if I could, but not in exchange for condemning you to pay a terrible price simply because of your birth. Do you understand?"

"Yes," Noctis whispers.

"Walk tall, my son," Regis says, and straightens his back. 

"I hereby abdicate my title," he says, his voice strong, the strength of a lion's roar hidden inside his calm. "I give it to my son and heir, Noctis Lucis Caelum."

He offers Noctis the ring.

"Long live the King."

Noctis takes the ring, swallows once, then visibly grits his teeth, closes his eyes, and puts it on in a single quick motion.

For a moment, nothing happens. No one moves, no one breathes, no one dares. 

"Oh," Noctis whispers, but his tone is one of wonder. "Oh, I see now."

But he doesn't open his eyes.

"Noctis!" Prompto finally bursts out, his worry overcoming his always-somewhat-limited patience. He darts forward, surprising all those around him, and Gladio and Ignis take advantage of that surprise to go after him, surrounding their friend. "Noctis, are you all right?"

"Yes," Noctis says, and then he opens his eyes and smiles. "I'm fine. And I know what we need to do now."

"You do?" Cor can't help but ask. If he'd known the Ring of the Lucii came with an instruction manual, he might've encouraged Regis to give it to Noctis earlier.

"I do," Noctis says. "And I thank you, Mom, and Scientia for the idea, too."

"Wait, how's that?" Scientia asks, clearly taken aback by her inclusion.

"The most important part," Noctis says instead of answering, his voice a little strangely distant, a little more formal than it had been before. Regis’ voice had done that, too, after he’d put on the ring, Cor remembers. "The most important part of it is that I can’t do this alone. Maybe I could have, if I was grown up, and had no more support than my friends. But I am _not_ alone. I have all of you, too, and I'm going to need your help."

"What can we do?" Gladio says at once.

"We're with you, Noctis," Ignis agrees, almost at the same time.

Prompto just punches Noctis' shoulder and smiles. 

“What’s the plan?” Aulea asks, arching her eyebrows at her son. “You know we’re all with you, so if you care to be a touch less cryptic…?”

Noctis grins helplessly at his mother - it appears that no one is immune to their mother's teasing, not even the Chosen King - but the smile fades a second later, the solemnity of the Kingship settling back on his shoulders. “We’re going to deal with our two problems the way they should’ve always been dealt with: as two separate problems. But first things first: you’re all going need to be armed.”

Cor has the distinct feeling that Noctis doesn’t mean with the weapons they’re all already carrying. 

"So I'll need thirteen of you," Noctis adds. "All adults who are willing to help me carry my burden."

Yep, just as Cor thought.

"Really," Regis says, sounding amused even as he rises to his feet. "Shall I guess mine?"

Noctis rolls his eyes at his father. "You don't count," he says firmly. "You're one of the ancestor kings – well, from my perspective, anyway! – so obviously you carry your own sword."

"You know," Clarus muses, "I vaguely recall that weapon being called the Sword of the Father when you picked it up. Really, we should've guessed then – the Royal Arms aren't known for being particularly subtle."

"That wasn't a real name," Regis objects. "That was Cor making a bad joke about me being bossy."

"You don't know that's not how the others were named," Cor points out, ignoring the look of incredulity on the faces of the Niflheim generals at the thought of him making a bad joke. He's really got to do something about his reputation; he's not _that_ scary. Honest! "Look at Clarus' family: one joke about the left hand holding the shield and suddenly they've got an inherited title."

"Speaking of which..." Noctis says. 

"Let me guess," Clarus says, chuckling. "You'd like me to take on the Shield of the Just?"

"It's appropriate," Noctis says, conjuring it into the air and offering it over. "And not just for the shield part."

Clarus blinks, then looks flattered.

"Mom, you've got the Bow of the Clever –"

"A testament to my aim, or to my mind?" Aulea asks, smirking as she takes it from him.

"Uh...both? Both! Definitely both!"

Aulea laughs.

"And me?" Cyrella asks.

"The Sword of the Tall."

"Oh, I like this one," Cyrella says, sounding pleased as she gives it a few swings. She would, the barbarian.

Cor hopes he gets something more reasonable, something like –

"Cor, you take the Katana of the Warrior."

That's more like it.

Cor tests the balance of it – it sings in his hands, just like all his best swords do.

He puts it away after a moment, and notices that Aranea has that expression again.

_Pamphlets_ , he thinks to himself. _Definitely time to break out the pamphlets._

"Lady Nox Fleuret," Noctis continues. "I think it's obvious what you wield."

She accepts the Trident of the Oracle that he summons for her with a smile and a regal nod. 

"Nyx –"

"Me?" Nyx exclaims.

"You're an adult, and you support me," Noctis points out. "Unless you'd prefer not to?"

"No, I'm good," Nyx says hastily. "I'm in, definitely. What do I get?"

"The Blade of the Mystic."

" _Nice_ ," Nyx says.

"Forget him," Hemera signs in classic bratty young twin style. "What do _I_ get?"

"You get the Swords of the Wanderer."

Hemera grins.

"Have fun with those, heroes," Libertus snorts, shaking his head.

"Libertus, you get the Mace of the Fierce."

Libertus' dumbfounded expression is amazing. 

"Any chance I can get in on this?" Aranea drawls in her best unaffected tone, but it can't hide the excitement in her eyes and the way she looks longingly at the weapons. She's got a good portion of that hero-lust, too – no wonder she and the Ulrics hit it off so well. 

"You can have the Star of the Rogue," Noctis assures her.

Aranea looks positively delighted.

"Counsel Scientia –" he continues.

" _Me_?" she asks, frowning.

"You get the Sword of the Wise," Noctis tells her, handing it to her.

"Just remember, pointy end on the other side," Sylvia says with a smirk.

"I'm still one up on you," Scientia reminds her, which wipes away the smirk, but doesn't make Scientia look particularly pleased, either.

Cor wonders what that's about.

At least Scientia is holding the sword the right way, albeit with a disapproving scowl. He'd been a little concerned. 

"That leaves two," Aulea observes. "Who else? What's left?"

"The Scepter of the Pious," Noctis says, "goes to Cindy."

Cindy's eyebrows shoot up in surprise. "Well, I'll be," she says, but she accepts it regardless. "Guess I do count as an adult now, now don't I? And ain't you the prettiest thing!"

That last part was very clearly addressed to the Scepter.

"One more," Clarus says. "But we do seem to have run out adults."

"Not quite," Noctis says, though he looks a little uncertain. He turns and takes a step towards –

Cor can feel his own eyebrows go up now.

"You're joking," General Eudocia says flatly.

"No," Noctis says. "You're an adult, and despite your standoffishness, you do support me. You _believe_ in me. And, well. This is a battle to save all of Eos. It would be wrong not to include Niflheim in that."

"I – suppose," she says slowly. "And I assume my belief in you – as irrational as it may be – is the reason you've selected me over my colleagues?"

"That," Noctis agrees with a shrug, "and the fact that you're the highest ranking Niflheim representative here, despite putting on lower ranking regalia and pretending to listen to orders."

That gets everyone's attention, except perhaps Cor. He's figured that out himself, as the cut of her uniform is slightly off.

Clarus notices Cor's response, or lack thereof, and glares at him pointedly. 

General Eudocia smiles, just a little. "Very wise," she says. "Yes, I do believe in you, despite it all."

"General Eudocia," General Tummelt starts.

"Leave off, Laufri," General Varazes says, shaking his head and looking at General Eudocia with a strange sort of fondness. "When has anyone ever been able to tell an Aldercapt what to do?"

That, Cor _hadn't_ known. 

Authority to negotiate indeed!

"Well, Chosen King?" Eudocia – General Eudocia Aldercapt, _apparently_ , and very likely one of the presumptive heirs to the Emperor's throne – says. "And what Lucian weapon of old do I get?"

Regis suddenly groans.

Everyone looks his way.

"No, no," he says, waving a hand. "Carry on. I just realized which one was left."

Cor does the math, counts up the names, and then closes his eyes when it hits him.

"You get this one," Noctis says, offering it to her. "We call it the Axe of the Conqueror."

She barks a surprised laugh. "Oh, I _like_ you," she says with approval. 

"Nothing left for us, huh?" Gladio says, sounding a little disappointed and a little resigned. "Does that mean we’re just too young to help?"

"Not at all," Noctis says. "You're my peers, my friends – you're going to help me carry the greater burden."

"The what now?" Prompto asks.

"We are at your service, Noctis," Ignis says, elbowing Prompto.

"You know we are," Luna agrees, ignoring both boys. "All of us."

Noctis smiles at his friends. "Each of you came with me and aided me on my journeys. The covenants I have forged I would never have made without you. I will bear the mark of Bahamut, as the Chosen of his Prophecy. Prompto – it was your words, as well as mine, that calmed Leviathan. Luna – it was on your behalf that Shiva gave me her power. Ignis – we made the journey through Ramuh's storm together. Gladio –"

"Titan," Gladio says, grinning. "I get the pattern."

"And for Ifrit," Noctis says. "Ravus."

Ravus' eyes widen. "You trust me?"

Noctis smiles at him. "Unlike Ifrit, you learn. You heard him yourself."

"I – I suppose I did," Ravus says, and he looks better, then. Happier, and more settled. 

"Noctis," Aulea says gently. "If you don't mind – will you _now_ tell us what the plan is?"

And then Noctis tells them.


	29. 29

It’s been a long time since Clarus fought by Regis’ side, a Shield in action, and even longer since he wielded an actual shield as a weapon. 

It feels good. 

The Royal Arms are just weapons, in the end, but they’re powerful, imbued with magic from an earlier age, and capable of great things. Clarus feels stronger and faster, even younger, when he uses the Shield of the Just.

The Crownsguard and the Kingsglaive spread out in front of them, moving out on an offensive meant largely as a distraction, even as the Niflheim airships – control wrested back from the MTs that had been on them – soar through the skies and fire down at the daemons from above, shining their spotlights down at the field to let the armies see their enemies. 

It’s dark and hard to see but, whether Lucis or Niflheim, they’ve all been trained to fight daemons when they’re not fighting each other and they've gotten pretty good at it. 

The main attack force, moving through the battlefield, is arrow-shaped. Each of the children has two adult ‘taurs with them, protecting them as they head towards their target.

In the front, leading the charge, is Noctis, flanked by Regis and Aulea. 

Close behind him to his right and left, respectively are the children of the Oracle: Luna and Ravus, wielding magic and weapon alike. Sylvia and Eudocia guide Ravus through the field, queens of their respective arts of warfare, while Nyx and Cindy wreak havoc around Luna. Aranea leaps from side to side at will, using her facility with the air to rain down destruction where she sees fit. 

And then, close behind, are the other three: Ignis in the center, with Scientia and Libertus on either side; Prompto, Cor, and Hemera to the left, and Gladio to the right, with Clarus and Cyrella at his side. 

Clarus’ shield is good as both an offensive and defensive weapon, and he finds he needs the latter use quite a bit more than expected as his aggressive family lashes out at all those who come near with expressions of sheer glee on their faces.

Noctis might come to regret giving Cyrella the Sword of the Tall, Clarus reflects. He doesn’t think she’ll be inclined to give it _back_.

They make their way through the daemon army, not running but rather moving forward in a steady, ground-eating, inexorable march –

And their target awaits them.

Ardyn’s face is grey, his eyes yellow, and black tar dribbles out from his mouth; his fur is sticky and uneven as if he suffers from the mange, fur and skin and muscle eaten away in parts as if it has simply rotted off his body, his corruption revealed for all to see at last. 

“Welcome, Chosen King,” he says, his eyes fixed on Noctis. “At last, we will have the battle of Kings – and the Prophecy of the Astrals revealed for all its hollow emptiness.”

“Yeah,” Noctis says, looking back at him, his back straight and his head held high. “Honestly, that’s not going to work for me.”

Ardyn laughs. It’s a sick laugh, the sound of grinding gears. 

Regis raises his hand, signaling, and they flank out, surrounding Ardyn on all sides – Clarus and his family looping around the back to meet with Cor’s group on the other side, even as Regis and Aulea fall back to compete the circle surrounding Ardyn and Noctis, giving them space. 

Ardyn makes a signal, too, and the daemons draw back from them, too, a circle surrounding their inner circle. He doesn’t take his eyes away from Noctis. 

“Do you think your friends can save you?” he asks with a sneer, his spotted tail lashing out frantically behind him. “They have no place here. This is a battle of kings!”

He waves a hand, and black light comes from it, shooting out to all sides before any of them can react and knocking them all down, all but Noctis. 

Noctis uses the moment to take a few steps closer to Ardyn, his pale golden fur standing out in stark contrast to Ardyn’s darker spotted bronze, but there is, Clarus fancies, a little bit of a resemblance there – something in the way they stand, the set of their forepaws, the heft of their hindquarters, the way they hold their tails and their shoulders both. 

A battle of kings.

A battle of the Lucii Caela. 

“I want to speak with Ardyn,” Noctis says. He has the Ring of the Lucii on his finger, the power of his ancestors and his gods with him, and he is not afraid. 

“You are,” Ardyn replies, his tail lashing behind him.

“No,” Noctis says. “With Ardyn Lucis Caelum.”

Ardyn bares his teeth. “You are,” he repeats. “I am he and he is me. Or have you so foolishly decided that there is something left in me other than the rot of the Starscourge? After so many years, so many crimes, so many daemons, you think there’s a _difference_?”

“I don’t know, to be honest,” Noctis says, putting his hands together. “But that’s not really for me to judge. It’s for _them_.”

“Them?” Ardyn echoes, surprised. He wasn't expecting this conversation. "What them?"

“Yeah,” Noctis says. “Your jury.”

“My _what_?” Ardyn says, clearly taken aback, shocked beyond surprise, and in that moment they act as planned, all lifting up their weapons and throwing them forward – the shot from the Bow, the sharp edges of the Star, the points of the Swords – and even though Ardyn throws up a hand and repels them all with the magic of the Arminger that each Lucian king possesses, Noctis is able to take advantage of the moment and grab onto his _other_ hand –

And he shoves the Ring of the Lucii onto Ardyn’s finger.

Clarus isn’t really expecting anything much – maybe Ardyn freezing up, maybe lighting on fire, something. 

He isn’t expecting the whole world to freeze around him. 

The lights of the Niflheim airships go out.

The usual lights from the flashlights on the chest of each Crownsguard and Kingsglaive go out.

The world is dark, and black, and they are all alone.

And then, all of a sudden, they aren't.

Clarus sees it first with Aulea, standing across the circle from him: the crossbow in her hands glows blue, and above her rises the shadow of a King, lean and sharp-eyed – immediately recognizable from his tomb as he of the line of the Lucis Caelum, he who was once called the Clever. 

And then, above Aranea beside her, the swathed shape of a mighty Queen, her face hidden but her star spinning in her hand to form deadly arcs around him.

Above Sylvia, the shape of the Oracle rises up, the Trident held in their hand and their broad shoulders, their tail flicking as they survey the crowd.

And so it goes around the circle, affecting each one of them in turn, each of them with each one of the great and ancient royalty of Lucis rising up behind them, ancient weapon in hand.

It comes to him in his turn and he feels it: he feels the Shield shiver in his hands, grow warm, and he feels the Queen of the Just rise up behind him, around him, her hands on his shoulders to steady him, and he feels her presence as though it were his own.

“What is this?” Ardyn demands. His claws are extended, digging into the dirt of the ground and revealing the measure of his concern: he does not know what is happening. This was not in his plan. 

He expected a fight, not – this. 

Not this still and solemn quietness. 

“This is your judgment,” Regis says quietly. He alone of the adults stands without a shadow behind him: his sword is his own, and he alone can speak with his own voice here in the court of the kings and queens of Lucis. “If you would wish to have it.”

“What does that mean?” Ardyn snarls. “If I would _wish_ to have you lay judgment upon me? Why would I want _that_?”

“Because they are the only ones who can,” Noctis says. He’s a King now, too, and through the haze of blue light that surrounds Clarus, he thinks he can see on Noctis' head the crown that he was never given, the crown that still lies in his future. “My father and I have brought you here to face judgment: him, as your accuser; myself, as your defender; and beyond us, _around_ us, the twelve of the ancient majesties, the Kings and Queens and Royals, all of the line of the Lucis Caelums. And they will be your jury – for they, and they alone, are your peers.”

Ardyn goes abruptly still.

The blackness fades from his face, and the gold in his eyes clears. 

His face and body become recognizable as that of a ‘taur once more.

Not a monster. Just a leopard 'taur like any other.

“My peers,” he repeats slowly. “My – peers?”

Noctis looks him in the eyes. 

“Your parents were wrong to condemn you,” he says. “Your brother was wrong to take your place. You’re as much a Lucis Caelum as any of us, no matter the spots on your back.”

Ardyn swallows. His hackles are raised, his back too stiff, his hands held up as if to ward off Noctis’ words, and his eyes flick madly from side to side, stopping at each one of the impassive faces of the Kings and Queens and Royals – and more than just that. They’re not just royalty, not just his enemies, not just the defenders of the world against all he has come in time to represent. 

They’re also his _family_.

“You were to be King,” Noctis says. “And to be a King of Lucis is to face the judgment of the Ring. That is the choice I offer you.”

“Some choice,” Ardyn spits, suddenly furious with a rage born of terror. “I know how they will judge me – me, who they call the Accursed –”

“The Accursed is not you,” the shape that is both Scientia and the Wise says, speaking at once in dual voices. “You are Ardyn Lucis Caelum: it is the daemons within you that are the Accursed. The Accursed is no King of Lucis, and may not so be judged. The judgment will fall upon you, and you alone.”

“You’ll hold me guilty of my crimes!”

“Yes,” Clarus finds himself saying, the spirit of the Just speaking through him. “We will, for you have committed them. But you will bear those crimes as the King that you once wished to be.”

“It is your choice,” Aulea – the Clever – says. “Here, at the end, you get one last chance to decide: are you Ardyn Lucis Caelum – or are you the nameless one, who took upon himself the name Izunia and raised arms against ‘taurkind?”

“I’ll be dead,” Ardyn argues.

He’s not saying no.

“Yes,” the Mystic speaks through Nyx’s lips. “Just as are we. Such is the fate of the Kings and Queens of Lucis. Such is the ultimate fate of us all.”

“Choose now,” Hemera, the Wanderer, says. “We open our numbers to you: join us, and lend to ‘taurkind your strength in its defense, just as we did. Or say no, and go your own way, for the rest of time. That is your choice, and we will not take it from you.”

“Your choice, Ardyn,” Regis says, gentle and inexorable at once. The King who always expected the worst, but hoped for the best - hoped that his land would somehow survive, hoped that his people would somehow flourish, hoped for the best in each 'taur he met. That hope is in evidence now, too, as he steps forward, his eyes fixed on Ardyn. “Not your brother’s, not your parents’, _yours_. You have spent hundreds of years playing the role that others saw fit to leave you with, angry that they robbed you of the choice you deserved. Well, you have that choice now. Late, yes – but not too late.”

“Make your choice,” Noctis says.

He’s still standing in front of Ardyn. He’s young, he’s small, he’s vulnerable, yet he looks up at Ardyn without fear.

“I –” Ardyn starts, then falls silent, his mouth moving without him. 

Noctis holds out his hands to Ardyn. “Your choice,” he reminds him. “Will you join us? Will you face your judgment, and take your place by our side? Even though you know what it will cost you, will you take back your name - cast of Ardyn Izumia, and become a Lucis Caelum once more?”

A long pause.

And then –

“ _Yes_ ,” Ardyn says, his face twisted as though in terrible pain. “Yes, I will take it. Give me my birthright, the power and the duty and the punishment all – just give me my _family_ back!”

And Clarus finds himself holding out a hand – they’re all holding out a hand, each one of the twelve ancient majesties that constitutes the jury – but it is Noctis that takes that final step forward, pulling Ardyn’s hands into his own.

“Welcome,” he says. They all say. “Ardyn Lucis Caelum.”

And then the spirits disappear, one by one, the darkness around them growing, and when at last the last one is gone, Ardyn, too, looks around – and disappears, leaving them shrouded in total blackness.

The blackness lifts. 

They’re standing in the middle of the battlefield. 

Noctis is still in the center of their circle, filled with dazed and surprised ‘taurs, still uncertain of what just happened in that space beyond time; the daemons still encircling them all, and beside Noctis there is Ardyn –

No.

Not Ardyn.

There’s nothing ‘taur in that shape anymore, though it still wears a mimickry of Ardyn’s face: the grey of its face is that of a corpse, filled with pulsing black veins; its mouth hangs open, black and gaping; and its eyes are empty holes with pinpricks of light. Its body, too, only barely resembles that of a ‘taur: its legs are twisted and blackened, rotting through and through, and the color of its hindquarters is the vile tar-like black sludge that spills from every orifice.

The Accursed, revealed at last.

The Starscourge in physical form, without any of its masks to hide behind.

It spits and hisses and tries to lash out at Noctis, but Regis is already leaping forward to pull his son back to safety, just in the nick of time.

“Now!” Noctis shouts, even as Regis pulls him back and away. “Now, everyone!”

And somehow, again, they all know what role they need to play.

Prompto raises his hands, and the Hydrean rears up behind him, Leviathan’s mighty head, her alien snake-like snout gaping in her endless rage, her lashing tail.

Luna raises hers, and the Glacian appears, cloaked in wind and snow, Shiva’s smiling face in all her majesty.

Ignis raises his, and the Fulgarian appears in the sky above them, millions of crows flying out from behind the clouds to come together to make Ramuh’s form – neither the Nemean Lion nor the Cerberean Hound, but aspects of them both.

At Clarus’ side, Gladio – his Gladiolus, his baby boy – raises up his hands, strong and sure and everything Clarus has ever wanted his son to be, and behind him the Archean rises, Titan the great bull, and he rears back, his hooves shining in the air, his mighty arms swinging at his side.

Then there is Ravus, stepping forward, and when he raises his hands, the volcano to his back roars and belches, and from the flames the gigantic form of Ifrit rises: the ghost of the past, the boar of flame, and he comes roaring down from the mountain to stand behind his champion.

And then, at last, last but hardly the least, Noctis himself raises his own hands, and from the sky comes the Draconiad, Bahamut with his wings of sword, his great lashing tail made of steel. 

The Astral who gave ‘taurkind the Prophecy.

The Astral who comes now, at the end, to write that Prophecy's final verse. 

The Accursed screams a wordless cry of denial.

Clarus feels the Shield in his hand heat once more, and he knows what he must do. 

He points it towards the Accursed, and a ray of light shines from it straight at him.

And the another – and another – and another – 

When all thirteen points of light come together from all around the circle, pin-pointing onto the Accursed like a target, the Astrals move.

The Astrals _strike_.

When the explosion comes, Clarus can see nothing but the blaze of white light that fills the air.

And then –

Silence.

Clarus doesn’t know if it takes ten minutes or if it takes an hour, but when the light finally clears, things are different: the sun is shining brightly once more, there are no daemons left on the field of battle, and all the ‘taurs on the field have fallen to the ground, all of them without exception, scions of Niflheim and Lucis and Tenebrae alike. Even the ships which were once in the air have been safely grounded as if they were never aloft. 

The Astrals stand around them in a circle, tall as houses. 

In the entire field, only Noctis is still standing.

“I’m here,” he shouts, shivering even in his defiance - the Chosen King, yes, but also a ten-year-old child. There are tears in his eyes, for he is terribly afraid, but he stands tall despite it. “All of you! I'm here! I’m ready to pay your price, if that’s what it takes!”

“No!” Regis chokes out, pushing himself off the ground, scrambling to his feet in a desperate effort. “No! Noctis!”

"I don't want you to die!" Noctis shouts. "Not you - or mom -"

"Noctis, no!" Aulea shouts back, on her feet already, moving forward -

And then Bahamut speaks.

“The price of the Prophecy has been paid,” Bahamut says, his voice booming and loud. 

It - what?

They all stare up at the great Dragon, blank and without understanding.

“My Prophecy demanded a terrible price," Bahamut says. "For it demanded the life of a King of Lucis, freely given – and so it was.”

But – how…?

“You mean _Ardyn_ paid the price?” Aulea says, surprised. She always was the cleverest of them. “When he…?”

“I _told_ you putting him on trial was the right approach,” Scientia mumbles in a voice that was probably not meant to be overheard, but which in the unnatural hush of the silenced battlefield carries much further than she intended. 

Cyrella reaches out and shoves at her with her hindleg, but in an exasperated, friendly sort of way. 

“You, too, have paid, Chosen King,” Bahamut says, his voice solemn and ringing as a bell above a graveyard. “You have given up your childhood to this quest: and that was a terrible price to pay. Go now, and be at peace.”

Noctis rocks back on his heels. “So that’s it?” he says, clearly shocked. “It’s over?”

The Astrals don’t answer – they just fade away like shadows, as if they were never there, leaving them all lying there where they were thrown, or in the case of Regis and Aulea standing there frozen in motion, halfway to run forward, their sacrifices suddenly unnecessary, each and every one of them utterly shell-shocked by what they've experienced. 

After a few minutes of awed silence, though, Noctis clears his throat.

“Uh, can I stop being King now?” he asks plaintively. “I _really_ don’t want to have to do all the paperwork Dad’s always doing.”

And that’s when they all start laughing, and they don’t stop for a good long time.


	30. Epilogue - 30

“You know, maybe I ought to be the one in charge,” Aulea says, reclining on the bed to stretch out her hindlegs and forelegs, smirking at Regis as she does. “If we’re putting a regency in place _anyhow_ …”

“My love,” Regis says, lifting her hand and kissing it. “You’re already in charge.”

She laughs. “Maybe I want formal control,” she says mischievously. “You can be my Prince Consort, how do you like that?”

“Does that mean you can take afternoon court and I can – oh, wait, you attend afternoon court with me as it is,” Regis sighs dramatically as Aulea snorts. “For shame. And here I’d been imagining a life of leisure.”

“Fat chance,” she giggles. “But look on the bright side: I could shake all the hands and sign all the formal documents, while you could be in charge of hosting all the parties.”

“I’ve seen your parties,” Regis says dryly. “I’ll take the shaking and the signing.”

Aulea hums in agreement. “It’ll only be worse now that we’re making peace with Niflheim, you know. There’ll be food requests. Weird new customs to adjust to. _Seating charts_.”

“You’re not making this whole Prince Consort business sound very appealing, you know,” Regis tells her. “What must a ‘taur do to get a nice, stress-free position in this government?”

“Not be in government,” Aulea laughs. “For a start.”

“Think we can get Clarus to do it?”

“Regis!” Aulea smacks him lightly with a pillow.

“We _are_ discussing a regency!” he laughs. “We could put anyone there – after all, I’ve abdicated! I’m an ex-king!”

“You know, I think you’ve already found what may be the one government position in which you _don’t_ have to do anything. And yet here you are, giving it up.”

“I’ve clearly gone mad,” Regis says.

“Clearly,” Aulea agrees. “Which means, of course, that it’s only right for _me_ to take the throne.”

“I’m sorry, my dear,” he says, catching her around the waist and pulling her closer. “I’m going to coup you and seize power from under your fingertips in order to put myself in as regent.”

“You monster!” she mock-gasps. “Stealing the power away from your only son!”

“Mmm,” he says, nuzzling her cheek. “You know, ever since the Ring was destroyed in that final confrontation with Ardyn, I’ve been feeling positively peppy – we could always see about fixing that ‘only’ business –”

“Why, Regis, you old _tomcat_ –”

* * *

“I think that’ll do it,” Clarus says, putting his pen down and looking at the newest version of the peace treaty that he’s marked up with satisfaction. “We’re getting close to something that may even be sustainable.”

Cyrella snorts, flicking her tail in his direction. “Really, Clarus? Optimism?”

He shrugs. “It’s a new age. I don’t see why not.” He grins. “Besides, if they disagree, our armies are in a far more equitable posture at the moment, and with Tenebrae demanding actual independence in exchange for refereeing this agreement, even if they do pull a draft, we’ll have early notice of it.”

“There is that,” she says, smiling. “But a preliminary question: do you think they’ll sign it?”

“That may take a bit more doing,” he concedes. 

“Well, if they don’t, I’ll hit them with the Sword of the Tall until they agree,” Cyrella says, sounding very pleased with the idea.

“Not very diplomatic of you,” Clarus says. “Also, shouldn’t you give that _back_ at some point?”

“I don’t see why.”

“Cyrella.”

“Don’t you ‘Cyrella’ me,” she says, pointing at him. “I just helped save the world. The least I deserve for my active participation is a sword as long as I am tall that is _absolutely badass_.”

“You’re absolutely badass enough on your own, you know.”

“Thank you. Still not giving it back.”

Thinking to himself that it would be wiser to withdraw from this field of battle, at least for now, Clarus decides a change in subject is called for. “You know, when this is done and Regis is re-installed as monarch – or, at least, as regent until Noctis is appropriately of age –”

“Which, if we leave the choice up to Noctis, won’t happen until he’s at least forty,” Cyrella opines. 

“…you’re not wrong. But as I was saying, when this is done, Reggie is going to be reigning over a _peacetime_ kingdom for the first time in his life.”

“So?”

“So, my dear, that means he doesn’t exactly have much immediate use for his War Minister, does he?” Clarus asks, arching his eyebrows at her. “Or, for that matter, his Shield.”

“Clarus Amicitia,” she says. “Are you suggesting that we might take a _vacation_?”

“I am indeed,” he says. 

“And what exactly did you have in mind?”

“Well,” he says, smirking. “You did seem like you liked the way I described Galahd…”

Her tail flicks again, this time with interest. “I did,” she says. “Gladio sounded like he liked it, too.”

Clarus arches his eyebrows at her. “Are we lacking for babysitters now? I was thinking we’d leave him here.”

“With who? Regis and Aulea are going to be thinking the same thing, you know; you so much as as hint at a vacation and they’ll sign up right alongside.”

“Yes, they will,” Clarus says patiently. “But you know who isn’t?”

“…Cor.”

“Cor,” he agrees.

“He’s going to kill you,” she predicts.

“Well,” Clarus says. “Luckily for me, my wife’s just come in to ownership of this sword – long as she is tall, I’ve heard it said – ‘absolutely badass,’ even –”

Cyrella laughs.

* * *

“I cannot _believe_ you!” Libertus bellows. He’s gotten pretty good at it. “You were supposed to be at training! You were supposed to be _leading_ training!”

“I’m sorry!” Nyx yelps. “I didn’t – I was just –”

“ _In the storage shed_?!”

“It was a spur-of-the-moment thing!”

“ _With Aranea Highwind_?!”

“Hey, I’m a member of the _Crownsguard_ Aerial Corps,” Aranea says, flicking her tail smugly. “You have no authority over me.”

“And yet, oddly enough, you’re on the _Kingsglaive_ training field right now,” Libertus says. “Besides, weren’t you going out on a date with _his sister_ the other day?”

“…maybe.”

Libertus crosses his arms. “Stop screwing my lieutenants. Or else.”

Aranea crosses her arms. “Or else what?”

“Or he’ll hand you over to me,” Cor says mildly from behind her, causing both her and Nyx to jump into the air. “Or would you say I _also_ don’t have authority over you, Crownsguard?”

“Um,” Aranea says.

“I have more pamphlets,” Cor adds cheerfully. 

She turns pale.

“You seem to have gotten the idea behind the whole asexuality thing,” Cor muses. “But maybe a few on healthy sexual practices –”

“I’ve changed my mind,” Aranea says hastily. “Libertus, I accept whatever punishment you choose to bestow.”

“I thought I ‘had no authority’ over you?”

“I’m willing to put that aside!”

“Oh, one thing,” Cor says. “Before you impose punishment, Captain –”

Libertus winces.

Cor smirks.

“– I think you should consider expanding that punishment to three.” He reaches down with one forepaw and stamps on the ground.

There’s a yowl and Hemera leaps into the air, clutching her tail.

“ _You too_?” Libertus howls.

“I wasn’t doing anything!” she signs quickly. “I came to argue with Nyx!”

“Over?”

“Well, see, I thought it was _my_ turn, and _he_ thought –”

“You’re _all_ on punishment duty! Now!”

* * *

Luna’s having a pretty good day so far. 

School’s let out early, she’s going to meet her girlfriend for a nice lunch, and – she’s never going to get over this – _they’re not at war_.

She has a delightful spring in her step as a result, kicking up her heels cheerfully as she trots along, turning the corner to go around the Kingsglaive training grounds – she likes taking that route, even if it is a bit longer, because it provides such delightful eye candy.

(Yes, she’s dating Cindy, but Cindy of all people understands the importance of some good eye candy.)

“Hey! Luna!”

Luna blinks and looks around when a new Kingsglaive trainee appears in front of her in a burst of warping.

Dark hair, dark eyes – 

“ _Crowe_? What’re you doing here?”

“They opened a junior wing for the Kingsglaive, since it’s still building up,” Crowe says, beaming at her. “We come here for the last few years of school and part-time with the Kingsglaive, getting us ready to join on the officer track. They’re hoping to expand.”

“That’s – great,” Luna croaks.

She hasn’t seen her in years. 

Crowe’s grown. 

She’s lean and dark and her eyes are flashing and her cheeks are flushed and her maned fox hindquarters are lean and sharp and –

Oh dear.

She’s _very_ attractive.

_Luna, you have a girlfriend_ , Luna reminds herself desperately. _And Crowe is dating – uh –_

“How’s your girlfriend?” Luna blurts out. “Back in Galahd?”

“No idea. We grew apart and ended up breaking up,” Crowe says cheerfully, totally unphased. “It happens. How about you? You seeing anyone?”

“Uh – yes – there’s this girl –”

“Heya, _bambi_ girl!” a familiar voice trills out. “You ready for lunch?”

“Cindy!” Luna exclaims, relieved. Show, not tell; that will surely make this conversation easier.

Right? 

Cindy hops over. “You were running late,” she says with a grin. “Oh – and who’s this?”

“Crowe Altius,” Crowe says, sticking out her hand, her eyes going a bit round in appreciation, which is pretty much everyone’s usual response to Cindy. “Nice to meet you.”

“Cindy Aurum,” Cindy purrs. She’s got a surprisingly good purr for a jackrabbit. “And darling, trust me, the pleasure’s _all_ mine.”

Luna’s in trouble. 

Good trouble, bad trouble, she’s not sure yet – but _definitely_ trouble.

* * *

“You’re – you’re _serious_?” Ravus says, staring at his mother over the dining room table. 

“That the ruler of Tenebrae has always been the Oracle is more tradition than any legal requirement,” Sylvia says, smiling at her son.

“Trust me, I’ve checked,” Scientia interjects. “At length. With some difficulty, because your libraries are still being reconstructed.”

“It’s unseemly to brag about _doing your job_ ,” Sylvia jibs back, rolling her eyes.

Scientia sniffs. “I didn’t have to _take_ the job.”

“Why are you even _here_?” Sylvia complains. “I know we agreed to have joint family dinners, but Luna’s off on date night and the younger children are all sleeping over somewhere –”

“I always could go, you know,” Scientia says. “I’ll just be taking the food I brought with me.”

“You can stay,” Ravus says quickly.

“Ravus!”

“Sorry, Mom. But the food is _really_ good.” He shrugs when she glares at him. “It is!”

“Well, yes, it is,” Sylvia concedes. “But we’re getting away from the point.”

“That you still owe me one?” Scientia coughs into her hand. 

“One day you two will have to explain that,” Ravus says. “But first – you _actually_ want – you want _me_ to inherit the throne of Tenebrae?”

“You’re my eldest son,” Sylvia says. “And you love the blue hills of Tenebrae as much as I do. Luna – well, Luna’s young. She may yet grow into the role, but I don’t think so. Right now, she wants to explore, to travel – she wants to be a healer, not a queen, and she’d never have the patience for all of hard work of ruling a country. You do.”

“And you don’t – what I did –”

“You need to learn to forgive yourself,” Scientia says crisply. “Accept your failures, understand them, decide not to do them again, and move on.”

“Are you the one with experience ruling a country here or am I?” Sylvia asks acidly.

“Were you going to give him any _other_ advice?”

“That isn’t the _point_ –”

“What would I have to do?” Ravus interrupts, looking at his mother with wide eyes. “Going forward?”

“Not much different than what you do now,” Sylvia says. “You stand by my side, you watch and you learn – Tenebrae’s going to be independent now, and that’ll be a learning experience for both of us. You’ll have a lot more classes in a hundred different subjects – but you’ll have me to guide you through it. Is that something you want?”

“Yes,” Ravus says, smiling so hard it looks like it hurts. “Yes. I do.”

* * *

“All right, you’ve got the set up down, right?” Noctis says into his headset microphone, looking around him to confirm that everyone else on his side is set up, too. 

Prompto gives him a thumbs-up and Gladio grins.

Ignis just stares at his screen, but that’s okay; he always does that right before they go in. Prompto likes to joke that he’s calibrating. 

Noctis doesn’t really care, since whatever it is, it seems to work. Ignis is _deadly_.

“Yeah, we’re good, assuming your pathetic connections can keep up with ours,” the voice says over the headset, snotty and arrogant as always.

Ugh, Noctis can’t believe they’re _friends_ with this jerk. 

“I wouldn’t worry about that, Loqi,” Gladio replies. “We’re gonna kick you and your friends’ hindquarters even with you Niffs tearing down all our towers to get yourself a leg up.”

“Yeah, right,” Loqi snorts. “You just want an excuse to explain how bad you’re going to _lose_.”

“You _wish_.”

“Enough chatter on the lines,” Ignis says, his voice dark and somehow incredibly intimidating. “Let’s get started.”

“What Iggy said,” Noctis adds, to help fill the cowed silence in the wake of Ignis’ declaration. “Let’s get this show on the road!”

“I’m just happy that they _finally_ expanded this MMORPG to be cross-border,” Prompto says happily. His tail is wagging like mad, but then, he’s always been remarkably unaffected by Ignis’ unparalleled skill at trash talk. “It was getting boring just fighting Lucian teams all the time.”

“No kidding,” one of Loqi’s friends – Noctis doesn’t know her name, just her user handle – says. “The league in Niflheim has been dull as dust ever since Gralea basically dropped off the usenet for a while there.”

“Consider less censorship,” Gladio recommends.

“Says the people who weren’t allowed on the network at _all_ for _how long_?”

“We were on a _different_ network, moron.”

“I still think we should be allowed to bring in an electronic avatar version of the Kaiser Behemoth,” one of the other Niff kids says. 

“You’re _not_ allowed to,” Prompto says. “You just be glad we let you _keep_ the Kaiser Behemoth. The real one, I mean.”

“The Kaiser Behemoth’s pretty awesome,” the Niff – presumably from Gralea – concedes. 

Noctis decides to ignore them all and click on the loading screen. Everyone quiets down as soon as they see it, mentally planning their first moves once their avatars all get dropped into the same landscape – chosen at random, as is only fair.

The best part of this, he thinks happily, is that he can even tell his parents that he was ‘fostering a further relationship with peers in Niflheim’ or whatever they’re calling it nowadays.

The screen finishes loading.

“Glory to the empire!” Loqi shouts gleefully, his character leaping forward.

“Long live Lucis!” Gladio shoots back, his own character jumping up to intercept.

"Long live Eos!" Noctis laughs.

And the game begins.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's all she wrote, folks! (Literally.) I hope you enjoyed the story!


End file.
